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He picked strawberries /or Massie^ and spread cakes for 
her on dock-leaves f—V . 124. 




OUT OF BOUNDS 


Being the Adventures 
of an 

Unadventurous Young Man 


L 

A. GARRY 


W I 

u,- 

NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 


OM 



1896 


dU 




Copyright, i8g6, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT & CO. 



THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PAGE 


1. 

Concerning Some Provin- 



cial Persons, . 

I 

II. 

The First False Step, 

II 

III. 

First-hand Investigation 

OF the Amusements of 



the People, . 

24 

IV. 

In which Serious Persons 



ARE Trifled With, 

73 

V. 

In which a Trivial Person 

Receives Serious Atten- 



tion, .... 

102 

VI. 

In which Original Sin 

Proves Stronger than 

the Most Careful Edu- 



cation, .... 

136 

VII. 

Rods for a Fool’s Back, 

153 

VIII. 

The Triumph of Folly, . 

195 

IX. 

Sequel: From which the 



Moral is Omitted, . 

216 


iii 


I • 




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4 


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*3 



OUT OF BOUNDS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

ConcernlnQ Some iprovincial pereone. 

OUNG Mr. Stephen Ayres 
walked down Fulford High 
Street, one June afternoon, 
as he had frequently done before. 
If any country-folk asked their 
town acquaintance concerning the 
young man, who was evidently 
somebody, — for he was comely and 
noticeable, and received and re- 
turned the salutes of citizens every 
step or two, — the town-folk would 
say, “Oh, him? That’s young 
Ayres.” As if his illustrious sur- 
name explained all — as indeed it 
did to such as lived within a twenty- 




2 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


mile radius of Fulford. Everyone 
knew the little, keen, clean-shaven 
potentate who lived in the gray 
house on the bleak hill above the 
town, and made the tropics bloom 
gorgeously in his greenhouses; 
who at seventy-five ruled the 
solidest bank in the north with an 
iron hand, and through the most 
all-seeing of spectacles — old Mat- 
thew Ayres, five times mayor. He 
was one of Stephen’s uncles. In 
the black close-set part of the town 
the mills of another uncle covered 
acres, gave bread to thousands, and 
truffles to himself. If you were 
select enough to live in the western 
suburb of Ruddington, and did not 
cancel that advantage by dissent, 
you could have little feeling of self- 
respect without listening of a Sun- 
day to the excellently delivered 
discourses of the rector, the Rev. 
Gordon Ayres, who likewise called 
the young man nephew. Indeed, 
one of this family had even a repu- 


SOME PROVINCIAL PERSONS. 


3 


tation in London — Stephen Ayres 
the elder, member for a county 
division bordering on Fulford, who 
had unusual gifts for serving on 
special committees of the one 
House and on Royal Commissions 
of both, and who, if he trusted his 
voters too much to come among 
them with a fawning frequency, 
had, indirectly, conferred on them 
distinction, for he had entertained 
a Royal Highness in his country 
house, ten miles from Fulford 
market cross. Everyone knew the 
stately widow lady, patroness of all 
good works, who lived in Rudding- 
ton Park, whose saintly mein did 
not prevent her favorable regards 
being the touchstone for the 
selecter world of Fulford. Ste- 
phen was her only and her very 
dutiful son. There were Ayres 
everywhere about the town; that 
is, in the responsible and dignified 
places. They seemed to have been 
all born capable and rich and 


4 


our OF BOUNDS. 


healthy, and formed a kind of citi- 
zen aristocracy whose favor and 
recognition newcomers quickly 
found were more valuable than 
the smiles and the greater osten- 
tation of the county gentry outside. 
But, indeed, the landed and the 
financial interests shook hands 
cordially and equally. Both were 
necessary. Like all great institu- 
tions, the family had its critics, 
whose stings it bore in smiling 
security. 

Numerous as were the Ayres, 
they belonged mostly to the elderly 
or middle-aged generation, and 
Stephen was, therefore, their hope 
and their pride. So if he walked 
down the High Street that June 
afternoon, looking like somebody, 
it was because the intelligence and 
the interest of big and little citizens 
knew that, wrapped up in him, were 
councilor and member of Parlia- 
ment, director of safe and profit- 
able companies, employer and 


SOME PROVINCIAL PERSONS. 5 


customer, patron of charities and 
of native talent, banquet-giving 
mayor and generous host. He was 
young Ayres, and all these, at 
least, potentially. This recogni- 
tion seemed to save him a great 
deal of trouble in the way of assert- 
ing his dignity; and there was little 
of the future mayor in his nod, of 
the formidable patron in his smile, 
or the grave signior in his gait. 

Fulford was simple, in some 
things, and having settled long 
before Stephen was born that the 
Ayres* countenance meant power 
and justifiable satisfaction with 
themselves and circumstances, it 
would have poured contempt on 
the bold physiognomist who should 
have read on the young man’s face % 

that afternoon something of doubt, 
and discontent, and restlessness. 

Fulford would say it knew young : 

Ayres — all about him. He need j 

not wait for his uncle’s acceptance || 

of a peerage before getting into the i 


i 


6 


our OF BOUNDS. 


House; there were seats waiting 
for him at this moment. Already 
he was on the Council, and reputed 
great in sanitation. For five years 
his days had been full of affairs. 
Hard on a young man, you may 
say. But Stephen had dined sump- 
tuously every day, and slept soft, 
and the family constitution was 
tough. He had been deputy for 
his uncles at prize-givings; he took 
the chair as if he had been born in 
it; and was the finest tennis-player 
in the county. Eligible, of course, 
in the highest degree; but the 
Ayres always knew their own mind 
too well to do things in a hurry, or 
to be persuaded against their own 
long-considered intentions. They 
had habits, just as they had family 
silver, and, for two generations, 
family portraits. The Ayres did 
not marry before twenty-nine; Ste- 
phen was twenty-six. They had no 
need to aspire, though they might 
have done so; and the young man’s 


SOME PROVINCIAL PERSONS. 


7 


matrimonial prospects were virtu- 
ally settled. He had certainly 
shared in the quiet arrangement 
that had come about, if he had not • 
exactly controlled it. They were a 
united family. The Lloyds' blood 
was blue, and though their means 
were narrow, a daughter of that 
house was destined for young Ayres. 
Dr. Lloyd was a scholar, an ex-fel- 
low of Corpus. He represented 
university culture in Fulford, and 
had a wide and rather unjust repu- 
tation for bearish manners. The 
Ayres had all well-furnished libra- 
ries, for they recognized that let- 
ters are among the graces of life 
which prosperous persons do well 
to encourage. Stephen's engage- 
ment to Sibyl Lloyd had never been 
announced, but it was counted on, 
just as you counted on the interest 
of the money you invested in Mat- 
thew Ayres' bank. Sibyl was in no 
hurry to marry. Dr. Lloyd was 
delicate, and till a younger sister 


8 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


should be permanently at home, 
Sibyl would not leave. She was 
dutiful, and she was so much else — 
at twenty-five, in fact, a personage. 
She was handsome, and she dressed 
with a studied and well-rewarded 
care. She went everywhere, dined 
with the best in town and country, 
and was more at home in every 
house in Pindleton — Fulford’s East 
End — than the inmates themselves. 
Did a new cause, philanthropic or 
educational, loom on the horizon, 
and plead for workers and organ- 
izers, who should give it counte- 
nance, life, and movement, and force 
it on its leg's, or damn it with chill 
discouragement ? Ruddington, at 
least, would have answered. Miss 
Sibyl Lloyd. The grave fathers of 
the town bent before her convinc- 
ing eloquence and her sleepless 
energy. Was one of them obsti- 
nate ? Sibyl gave him a personal 
interview and her cause another 
triumph. But her mind was staid, 


SOME PROVINCIAL PERSONS. 


9 


and did not run to extreme views; 
she was, in truth, a watch-dog that 
took quick alarm at doubtful re- 
spectability in opinion or conduct. 
Philanthropy did not absorb her. 
In society she was popular, because 
she was always awake. Even idle 
young men thought her an acquisi- 
tion at tennis-parties for her skill 
and her vivacity, though they 
dreaded her tongue, and did not 
propose to marry her. Only her 
obstinate old father refused to 
budge; he would not be reformed; 
he tyrannized over her, and laughed 
at her. And she remained loyal 
to him, and devoted, and even bore 
no malice, when, having learned 
Greek to help him in his work, her 
services in scholarship were never 
once called into requisition. 
‘‘ What a wife for an Ayres ! ” 
everyone said. The Ayres women, 
those imported into the clan, had 
been mostly gentle, retiring, and 
too full of confidence in their men- 


lO 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


tolk to show much energy outside 
their own gates. But the new 
times needed new wives. And 
Sibyl was made manifest. 

This is a lengthy description of 
two very provincial persons. But 
they were very important persons; 
and in Fulford your private opinion 
to the contrary would have been 
treated with scant attention. 


CHAPTER II. 


Zbc ffiret ffalse Step* 

ELL, on a June afternoon, 
a market-day, Stephen 
walked down the High 
Street, as he had done many times 
before. And it was ^‘Halloa, 
Ayres ! I have to pay you back 
for that beating! I’ll get Miss 
Lloyd up to the club ground to- 
morrow, and we’ll have it out.” 

And, “Good-day, sir. H’m, by 
the bye, do you think you could 
find anything for my lad about the 
bank, now ? He is leaving school, 
and I don’t like this hanging about 
idle ” 

And, “ See you to-morrow at 
the Board. Let’s stick together, 
and stop that fellow Rodd’s con- 



II 



12 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


founded impudence. You can 
do it, only you are so awfully 
polite 

And, I say, the thing’s going 
well. I owe you my thanks. Seven 
per cent, you know, and I can see 
it’s all right ” 

And, ‘‘Ah, Mr. Stephen, you 
know we’re counting on you for 
Thursday week. I’ve got the 
bishop. But he’ll expect local in- 
fluence by his side, and your uncle 
cannot remain the whole time. 
The bishop has to be so careful. 
He asked particularly if the Ayres 
approved.” 

They didn’t all speak at once, the 
clerks, and the merchants, and the 
sportive young men, and the chari- 
table ladies. Stephen had time to 
walk on between and nod to others. 
But he met them all the way, and 
more of the kind, on that bright 
afternoon when all the world 
was out. 

Just where High Street merges 


THE FIRST FALSE ^ STEP. 


13 


in the Western Road an old wall 
shuts away from you an old house 
and a great garden. Over the top 
you could see pure flowering limes 
and chestnuts; in the breeze they 
nodded and puffed out scent. In- 
side, the blackbirds were piping in 
mad, frantic glee. Did they use to 
pipe so clear ? Why was Stephen 
loitering ? All of a sudden he felt 
a grievance. Wasn’t it annoying 
to have to give your mind to fifty 
different things as you walked 
down the street in such holiday 
weather ? He had never framed 
such an undutiful thought before; 
so the blackbirds must have be- 
witched him evilly. What a scent ! 
And that cloud ! There was no 
room to see its movement in the 
High Street or in Ruddington. 
How absurd ! Of course there 
was. But the sun didn’t glisten 
like that on his mother’s flower- 
beds, he was certain. That bird 
again ! Stephen was now pacing 


14 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


up and down by the old garden 
wall, waiting again for the bewitch- 
ing call; then he walked on, think- 
ing, but not in the coherent fashion 
he thought out matters for the 
welfare of his town, or for Miss 
Lloyd’s causes, or of the chance of 
profit and loss. Indeed, his think- 
ing was so incoherent and absurd 
that he thought he wouldn’t even 
mention the matter of it to himself. 

Pirri-u-ee, pirri-u-u-ee.” As he 
looked up again and stopped. Miss 
Maisie Hearn was passing, and the 
gallant Stephen could not stay for 
a blackbird and pass a lady by. 
Not Miss Maisie Hearn, at all 
events. For she was not of the 
Fulford //ife. One or two Rud- 
dington nurseries and school- 
rooms knew her, — she was a daily 
governess, — but Ruddington draw- 
ing rooms not at all. Stephen, 
however, whose acquaintance was 
bound to be wide, knew her father, 
knew him for a troublesome, bitter- 


THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 


15 


tonguecl critic of all the powers 
that were, the Ayres included; had 
suffered from his gibes and his 
opposition, and liked him. At 
some popular gatherings he had 
met Maisie with her father; and 
perhaps he was sorry for her, for 
he knew their poverty, or, perhaps 
— well, she was a pretty girl, and 
Maisie Hearn was not the lady he 
would pass by. 

‘‘How is your father ? Tell him 
we are stricken sore after that last 
attack. No, don’t. Tell him, 
though, that he has never asked 
me if I were interested in the club 
I hear he is founding. I might be, 
you know.” Stephen had a little 
too early learned the role of magnifi- 
cent patron; but it would have 
been difficult to resent words and 
tone accompanied by so kindly a 
look and smile. “ Lovely day, 
isn’t it ? Going to have a holiday 
soon ? ” 

“Well, I’m only in town for the 


l6 OUT OF BOUNDS. 

day. Tm with my pupils at Hay- 
dons.” 

‘‘ Pirru-ee,” went the blackbird, 
and Stephen’s heart gave a leap. 
“At Haydons? Oh, yes — I’ve often 
thought — Yes, v/ell, it’s time to be 
off somewhere in this weather. I 
go there sometimes. Good-by ! ” 

She was mingled in Stephen’s 
mind with the garden and the black- 
bird; her cheek was so fresh, and 
her voice so clear, and the light 
danced so quickly in her eyes. He 
was too polite, or too little discrim- 
inating, to think that her frock was 
old and rather tawdry, and that her 
hat had borne the storms of rougher 
seasons. “Haydons — how I liked 
that place when I was a little 
chap! ” 

“ Pirri-u-ee.” The blackbird was 
a devil. It was the bird’s thought, 
certainly not his own. But he 
laughed nevertheless, and the black- 
bird — where was the bird ? that 
garden was long past now — the 


THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 


17 


blackbird laughed too — shouted, 
and the sun joined in, in a rippling, 
roguish fashion. And — well, the 
idea, at least, was a good joke. 

The devil then became indus- 
triously inventive. It turned 
Ruddington Road and its villas 
— a most desirable neighborhood, 
of course — into a dismal, gray, 
dusty desert, and it tweaked and 
teased Stephen to look at the blue 
sky above and the rising hills be- 
tween the walls. Then it fooled 
him, till he thought he was thirsty, 
that he had a headache, that some- 
thing ailed him. He had grown 
melancholy, and was stepping 
along with a slow languor when he 
came in sight of the Lloyds* gate. 

Now, duty is quite as watchful 
as the evil spirits; only less agile. 
They keep a perpetual youth. 
But for that, perhaps, Stephen 
had been saved, and the Ayres 
had not fallen. Out of the gate, 
with brisk, light, purposeful tread. 


1 8 our OF BOUNDS. 

came Sibyl, and toward him. She 
was still afar off, but he would 
have known her from farther. He 
could tell, without seeing it, that 
her face was cheerful, that she had 
come out to do something on pur- 
pose, and that before she went 
back it would be done, and scored 
off in her note-book. 

Now before he could meet her 
he must meet something else, — 
the devil had so arranged it, — a 
little green lane leading by fields 
to his own home, only he never 
went that way. Near the corner 
the devil stood waiting with a fatal 
opportunity, in the shape of a 
whistling boy, hrs own gardener’s 
boy, as it happened, on idleness 
bent. A second of hesitation was 
followed by a call of ‘‘Tom”; but 
when the boy ran up he did not 
converse with him in the open 
road, but in the green lane. 
There, standing up by the wall, he 
wrote a word or two on a visiting 


THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 


19 


card. In another minute the boy 
was running across the fields with 
it. But Miss Lloyd had gone past. 
What a pity ! There was so much 
he should talk to her about. A 
loitering cab picked him up a few 
minutes after, and Sibyl, tripping 
erect and brisk on the side-path, 
was easily overtaken. But the 
driver had not been inspired to 
teach Stephen his duty, and they 
flew past, and on to the Central 
Station. 

The boy with the bag could not 
be here for a while. How amusing 
to wait at a station, especially at 
your own! To dine at a station, 
now — your own — and at four 
o’clock ! There was novelty in it. 
Then to watch the leisurely hurry 
of the porters; oh, yes — to make 
up your mind where you are going 
to; for they would ask. There was 
much to think of. Well, for the 
train-bills. Fulford Central Station 
is a junction, but Stephen looked 


20 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


seriously at only one line. Here — 
Lovels — Firwell — Ayleford — Bin- 
stone. What did it matter ? Bin- 
stone — Widdingston — Haydons — 
Haydons. No. Binstone — a rea- 
sonable distance. 

‘‘Your bag, sir, and the house- 
keeper gie me these letters and 
things for ye.” 

“ Oh, hang — that’s to say, thanks, 
Tom.” 

“And where would she send 
things to ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Tell her 
not to send things. I’ll be back 
to-morrow. How the time has 
passed! The Haydons train goes 
in five minutes; I’ll book there and 
get out — oh, anywhere ! Tom, 
take this, and get me newspapers.” 

So strong is habit even in dare- 
devil escapades! But the papers 
were useful, nevertheless, for there 
was a talkative old gentleman in 
the carriage, and Stephen only 
wanted to talk to himself. So he 


THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 


21 


lavished his bundle of sheets on 
the old man, who was suppressed 
for a time under the mass. 

The number of people going for 
a holiday that afternoon ! Quite 
extraordinary ! Shriek — off ! The 
sun was making the spire of Upper 
Goring Church like a golden rod. 
Down with the window ! Could 
we have enough of such air ? 

Then Stephen, whose habits had 
been carefully formed, put his hand 
into his pocket, and drew out a little 
book bound in dark morocco. The 
quality of the paper was excellent. 
It gave information on the phases 
of the moon, the feasts of the 
church, and left spaces for the 
notification of its owner's duties. 
It had been given him by Sibyl 
Lloyd, and he used no other. 

“ Thursday Ju7ie 2 . See T. O. 
(‘Seen him.’) Dine with Li’s. 
(‘Phew! Oh, it was only a pass- 
ing suggestion of the Doctor’s. 
No, it wasn’t. By Jove I ’) Talk 


22 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


about Institute autumn programme. 
(‘When was that entry made? 
Last year, surely.’) 

June 3. See Uncle T. about 
F. D. Fred to lunch. Building 
Society. Tennis with Spedding. 
Hospital. (‘Good Heavens! how 
was it all to be done? and he at 
Haydons — no, at Binstone ? ’) 

June St. Boniface Bazaar. 
(‘Never!’) Sibyl’s Birthday. (‘How 
well I wrote that! ’) Council 3. Dep. 
for Uncle T. at 7. (‘ Let ’em wait ! ’)” 

The old gentleman opposite 
thought Stephen a pleasant, light- 
hearted fellow, noting his card-win- 
ning, probably, since he whistled 
and smiled while he played with 
his pencil and note-book. But 
Stephen’s soul was black within, 
and all these accusing, clamoring 
entries were dancing before him, and 
“ Truant” written in black and red 
across them. What was the rod in 
store? To feign sudden illness 
was to make anxiety sit down at 


THE FIRST FALSE STEP. 


23 


every Ayres’ hearth-stone ; to send 
telegrams of excuse was to break 
with the best Ayres’ traditions. 

“Fine evening!” said the old 
gentleman. 

“Glorious!” returned Stephen, 
with quite unnecessary emphasis, 
and — one — two — three — toss out of 
the window went the morocco note- 
book, with phases of the moon, 
birthdays of the royal family, 
saints’ days, and a young man’s 
reminder of duty. The train left 
it behind by the side of a little 
trickling stream, an amiable, indul- 
gent little stream; for though it 
also spelt “Truant,” it was with 
the sun’s pencil in letters of gold. 
Then the countenance of Stephen 
glowed as that of an angel, and the 
old gentleman thought again what 
a fine young gentleman he looked, 
and hoped he had come into a for- 
tune and would spend it merrily. 
And Stephen buried his conscience 
deep, and danced on the grave. 


CHAPTER III. 



IFirats^bauD UnveeU^ation of tbe 
Bmu6cment0 of tbe people* 

flIRWELL and Ayleford 
past; Binstone would be 
reached in a minute or 
two. Then he must act. A shade 
of anxiety crossed his face. ‘‘ Not 
yet settled,” thought the old gentle- 
man. “ Formidable interview with 
a rich uncle — or is it about a lady?” 
At all events it was worth while 
shaking hands with such a hand- 
some, bright-faced fellow; and he 
did it, Stephen, for all his surprise, 
answering heartily, and his ba- 
rometer rushing up at a bound. 
Now he was all haste to be out of 
the cramping train, and into the 
world that greeted him with such 


24 



AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE, 25 


geniality. So at Binstone he 
dropped blithely on the platform. 
It is a place of some importance, 
and at the station its rival inns call 
your attention by smart omnibuses 
driven by silver-buttoned coach- 
men. The George and The Wild 
Goose give you equally affable in- 
vitations, but Stephen detected a 
sympathetic twinkle in the eye of 
The Wild Goose man, and with an 
air of decision he delivered up to 
him his bag. 

But to get into his little close 
box on a glorious afternoon was 
quite another matter; and with an 
order to the twinkling man he set 
out on foot at a swinging pace. 
The omnibus passed him just where 
a green, sheltered road broke off 
from the highway. The highroad 
was dusty and straight, and gazing 
along it you could see the roofs and 
chimneys of Binstone hard against 
the sky; the other was winding 
and green, and lost itself in soft, 


26 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


sloping fields. Of course, it would 
lead to Binstone in the end. 
These people must be going there. 
What a number of them ! Not in 
their workaday clothes, either, but 
ribboned, and necktied, and black- 
coated, as if for church or holiday. 
A serious anticipation of pleasure 
that hung , about them impressed 
Stephen, and he began to keep step 
with the country pace, and to watch 
with sympathy a string of children 
comparing the contents of purses 
and pockets, holding up pence and 
half-pence with the air of those 
who could buy the world, but who 
would look round among the 
planets before striking hasty bar- 
gains. The three or four groups 
of older folk, walking soberly in 
front, were company, too, though 
he did not hear the jests at which 
they laughed, nor the stories to 
which they listened with such pa- 
tience. The children were now 
before, now behind, now tripping 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 27 


him up; but with the present joy 
of pennies and the prospect of 
gingerbread, horses, marbles, 
sugar-sticks, and shots at Aunt 
Sally, they were indifferent to 
his presence. From time to time 
the outlying cottages would give 
another contribution to the pleas- 
ure-seekers, and men and matrons 
and maidens, grandames and the 
children, dotted the road thickly; a 
road leading far away from Bin- 
stone, to be sure, yet leading 
irresistibly. 

The sun had nearly set, but a 
pink light spread over the sky, 
keeping the birds awake; and the 
soft air, and the twittering, and the 
mild coloring lapped Stephen into 
a sleep in which he forgot his own 
movements, and walked on uncon- 
scious of all save delight and rest. 
The fair woke him up : first the 
shouting of the children, now far 
beyond him, then the twang, bang 
of the brass instruments and the 


28 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


drums, and the echoes of laugh- 
ing and tramping. A sharp turn 
brought him almost within sight of 
it. Before him the road widened 
out in front of an old-fashioned inn, 
The Stump and Wickets. On the 
wooden benches by the door were 
seated the old men with their 
glasses and mugs and pipes on 
tables before them. Through the 
open door you could see the 
crowded bar, the bustling landlord 
and serving maids performing feats 
of steady-handedness with foaming 
mugs borne betwixt jostling elbows 
and high above swaying heads. 
Outside, standing, or seated on the 
ground, or leaning on the fence 
over the way, were forty or fifty 
stalwart youths, singing, laughing, 
drinking, playing pitch-and-toss. 
They were the hobbledehoys, the 
shy, the indifferent to the society 
of the ladies; for it was a black- 
coated company round the inn, 
save for some buxom matrons wait- 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 29 

ing aloft in dog-carts for their 
lords, who were tarrying in the bar. 
In a meadow by the bank of a 
stream, on a lower level than the 
inn, and divided from it by a slop- 
ing, sweet-smelling garden, was the 
fair-ground. There, now that the 
daylight was fading, and the stalls 
and shows were being lit up, the 
temper was growing more frolic- 
some. Stephen crept a little shyly 
through the crowd, past the living, 
lighted meadow ; and behind a 
stone bridge which the highroad 
crossed found a quiet retreat for 
watching. Soon the noise grew 
deafening, the brass instruments 
mercilessly tore the brain ; the 
showmen's strident invitation, the 
bang and clack of the shooters 
rasped and grated, and shocked an 
ear tuned to the quiet of the sum- 
mer evening. 

Now Stephen, public-spirited 
young man that he was, had con- 
cerned himself seriously about the 


30 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


amusements of the people. He 
considered holidays of prime im- 
portance, was president of a local 
branch of the Rational Amusement 
Society, and the number of athletic 
clubs he subscribed to, out of sheer 
consistency, was unbelievable. 
Dramatic and musical societies 
came likewise within the sphere of 
his favor. He had organized con- 
certs for the people, and paid for 
professionals out of his own pocket 
when amateur talent was not to be 
had. Pilgrimages to famous sites, 
with lectures on the spot — a spe- 
cialty of SibyPs — had known his 
presence, and never been refused 
his practical sympathy. May Mar- 
ket, a local fair, had particularly 
brought the irrationality and moral 
danger of existing popular amuse- 
ments under the nose of Rudding- 
ton ; and Stephen, representing 
tolerance among the philanthropists, 
would say with an air of reasonable 
charity, ‘‘Ah, yes ; of course ! but 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 31 


they must have sport of some kind. 
Let’s draw the line at promiscuous 
dancing — it doesn’t do ; it’s ruin- 
ous.” This was a quotation from 
Sybil, and, among charitable ladies, 
he found it very effective. ‘‘Give 
them something instead of rowdy- 
ism and romping, and see if they 
don’t appreciate it. Oh, we’ve had 
great success ! ” Stephen, then, 
should have been a sad man, and he 
was not a very tolerant one, as he 
leaned over the bridge and looked 
at the scene over which his presi- 
dency had no jurisdiction. Pro- 
miscuous dancing there seemed to 
be to an endless extent ; loud, bold, 
bad music, and, doubtless, degrad- 
ing exhibitions ; and through the 
opening into the meadow trooped 
men and maidens, women with 
babies, frail old figures, and rough 
youngsters ; and there was no one 
to stop them with a choice of some- 
thing more elevating and rational. 
The quiet night reproached them. 


32 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


Why could they not be still and 
listen to it? Stephen was very 
eloquent in his own mind on the 
preferability of such a course, on 
the strength of his own contempla- 
tive delights for ten minutes ere he 
came in sight of the fair. How 
still was the water where the lights 
did not catch it ! How stealthily it 
crept down to the bank of alders 
where the night began ! Between 
the bangs of the music how eerie 
was its sipping and gurgling ! On 
to the other side he moved, that he 
might the better appreciate the 
discordant difference — all was noisy 
and garish. Yet that flash of light 
on the stream — that was warm and 
rousing. The flame of an oil-lamp 
swept the water, and lit up the 
banks, and Stephen’s eye fell on 
some patient horses feeding and 
drinking ; quiet creatures, indiffer- 
ent to the bustle and the dancing 
and the noise of the strange 
humans. They trudged so many 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 33 


miles, with laden vans, to so many 
fairs ; and they found them all 
alike, noisy and tiring, but they 
had no opinions about their ration- 
ality. The indifference of the 
horses was outdone by their owners, 
the inmates of the tinkers* vans on 
the further side of the stream, 
those who were not wanted at the 
hucksters* stalls or in the show- 
booths, and who were now going 
about their private business, as 
little disturbed by outside interests 
as if they had been in the middle of 
a lonely moor. A boy was cooking 
fish in a fire clgse by the steps of 
his van ; another was dropping a 
line over the edge of the stream 
with a grave, patient hopefulness, 
for all the darkness. A sallow, 
haggard woman was hanging out 
some children*s shirts and frocks 
on the hedge ; a bent old man sat 
with his head in his hands, leaning 
against a wheel of the wagon ; a 
half-grown girl, with oaths and 


34 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


rough tugs, pulled toddling babies 
out of dangerous places. Noise is 
no distraction if you have the 
faculty of concentration, and it was 
theirs. Their tolerance gained on 
Stephen imperceptibly ; till he for- 
got his presidency of the Rational 
Amusement Society, began to beat 
time with his stick to the music of 
the fair, and to hum the airs aloud ; 
and when one of a band of giggling, 
screaming damsels fell against him 
in her flight from a teasing swain, 
he forgot to make moral reflections, 
laughed at the romping, and moved 
aside to leave it freer sway. 

The rompers vanished — heavy- 
footed, struggling, expostulating — 
into the center of the lights; and 
over the bridge came ‘:wo new fig- 
ures. In the darkness Stephen 
could just descry a girl leading 
along an unwilling and unsteady 
young man. They moved slowly 
and uncertainly, the girl urging 
with muscular efforts more than 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE, 35 


with words; the lad resisting, with 
a hangdog, ashamed, and obstinate 
look. Stephen’s helpful instincts 
were awake in a moment, and he 
looked and listened. 

‘‘Let me alone, I tell ’ee,” said 
the boy. 

“No; you’ll go ’ome at once, 
you will, an’ no disgrace me an* yer 
father more.” 

“ Let me alone, I’m going 
home. Let me alone, or I’ll ” 

Stephen looked up in case his 
assistance should be needed. But 
in the flushed, frowning face there 
was nothing worse than peevish 
obstinacy. A very young face it 
was, almost like a child’s, with a 
quantity of light hair hanging 
about it. His words were loud: 
he tried hard to shake himself free 
from the girl’s grasp, but he did 
not use his one free fist; so Stephen 
waited. On the girl’s face there 
was a hard-set determination to 
get him away from the fair and the 


36 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


inn, and quietly, too; but, alter- 
nating with that, a look of deep 
discontent, of personal annoyance. 
Was she sister, wife, or sweetheart ? 

‘‘Go back, that ye shall not,’' 
he heard her say; “not if I goes 
’ome the ’ole way wi’ ye. Drinking 
and singing like to disgrace yer 
folk, and yer neighbors laughin’ at 
ye ! Eh, but I wouldn’ ha’ come — 
no, I wouldn’. Now ye’ll bide here 
till George passes in the cart, and 
in it ye’ll go ’ome.” 

The young fellow made one brave 
attempt to show his independence 
and break away from her. But his 
effort after dignity ended sadly; 
he stumbled and fell, and in his 
stupid condion it was so much 
more comfortable to sit than stand 
that, though he protested louder 
than ever, his struggles to rise 
grew feebler and feebler every 
moment. 

“Lie there,” said the girl. 
“I’ll stop an’ see that ye doan’t 


AMUSEMENTS OP THE PEOPLE, 37 

move, though it should be two 
hours ere the cart comes. Eh, if 
your father but saw ye! Ye idjut! 
An* me ** — glancing toward the 
lights of the fair— thinking to 
have a holiday. Now, if ye seek to 
rise, 1*11 never speak to ye again.** 

Something in the girFs tone, a 
note of real disappointment, drew 
Stephen toward her. She was 
anxious for decency, he felt, and 
she had been bitterly bereft of a 
pleasure. Unseen by the creature 
on the ground he stepped near her, 
and whispered over her shoulder; 

‘‘ Where is the cart ? How shall 
I find George ? ** 

The girl started and stared. 
Stephen turned away some paces, 
and beckoned to her. ,She slo’*"*y 
followed, and he repeated his ques- 
tion. 

^‘The cart*s in the shed at the 
inn. I’d fetch it myself, but Tm 
boun* to stay wi* ’im.** 

‘‘And George? Who is he?** 


38 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


4s father's man. But 'e’ll 
no be willing to come yet." 

‘‘Where is he? What is he 
like?" 

“Like? 'E’s sitting afore the 
inn, but 'e wouldn' come for ye." 

“ We’ll see. What is he like? " 

“Oh, ’e’s just George — o’ New- 
hills. But it isn’t no good,’’ she 
said hopelessly. 

Stephen, however, had already 
set off to fetch an unknown George, 
or harness an unknown horse to 
an unknown cart, to convey an 
unknown and intoxicated young 
farmer to his unknown home, along 
an unknown road, to oblige an un- 
known and not very attractive lady. 
Over the bridge he stepped, as if 
his purpose had been perfectly 
clear, and made his way, less stiffly 
this time, through the thinning 
groups before the inn; for the fair 
ground was more popular, now that 
the lights were all ablaze and the 
dancing in full swing. Seeing a 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE, 39 


bustling maid at the door, he whis- ^ 
pered in a tone of confidence, ‘‘I 
want George/’ 

‘‘What?” 

“ George,” he answered convinc- 
ingly. 

“What George? ” 

“Oh — of Newhills.” 

But the damsel had fled before 
he could remember George’s home, 
and it was five minutes before she 
returned under the wing of the 
landlord. 

“ What is your will, sir? ” 

“I want something to drink, 
and I want George — George of 
Newhills.” 

Well, he would see ; and not 
conceiving the business to be of a 
private nature, the landlord went 
seeking the missing man in the 
group by the door, till everyone, 
save George himself, knew he was 
wanted ! He was here a minute 
ago; he had gone home; he was 
dancing — the suggestion raised a 


40 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


shout of derisive laughter; he was 
drunk. But the search ended with- 
out his appearance, and Stephen 
resolved to do without him. The 
inn stable-boy, impressed by his 
authoritative manner, brought him 
a lantern and led the way to the shed. 

“That’s the cart ? Now for the 
horse.” 

“ Be you to drive it ? ” 

“Not if you’ll do it for me or 
find George. But meantime let’s 
get them out. See, there’s for a 
fairing.” 

Urged by the silver, the boy 
racked his memory for the color of 
the Newhills’ horse. He thought 
it was gray. But they had a pair 
of brown. Well, it beat him. 
Better wait for George. 

“ Now, isn’t it that gray one ? 
Yes? He seems willing to be 
yoked to the cart. Doesn’t he 
now ? And what does it matter ? 
It can be set right to-morrow.” 

The boy helped him to fasten the 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 41 


girths, with a doubtful look in his 
eyes at this frivolity on the subject 
of horses. But Stephen had a com- 
manding way about him, though he 
failed to persuade him to drive the 
cart to its destination. 

Well, Stephen would do it him- 
self. And out of the yard and 
down the road he went, past won- 
dering groups who could just see 
enough to stare at Newhills’ cart 
being driven by a stranger. Near 
the bridge a skurrying was heard 
behind. A heavy-footed man was 
running and calling ‘‘Stop!” and 
a troop of his friends and loafers 
were following in sympathy. 
Stephen never turned his head, till 
the man’s hand was on the horse’s 
bridle, then, “Ah, George!” he 
said in a friendly tone. 

“ Who ’re you, an’ what are you 
doin’ wi’ my cart ? ” 

“Jump up quick, man,” said 
Stephen. “ Quick there ! there’s 
no time to be lost.” 


42 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


The old man stared, uttered 
low, surly oaths, called Stephen 
ugly names, but in a half-frightened 
voice. A helping hand from -the 
impudent stranger, allied with a 
shove from behind, given by a 
friend who did not understand 
George's point of view, and the 
man found himself in his familiar 
place behind the horse. Stephen 
whispered an explanation in his ear, 
but George’s wits were slow and 
his hearing dull. 

‘‘What ye say? My maister’s 
son ? ” he roared. 

“Hush, man; you’ve to drive 
him as quick as you can,” whispered 
the other. “Can’t you get rid of 
your friends ? ” 

Solidly, stolidly were these 
grouped round. 

“Hi!” said Stephen to some 
boys on the outskirts, “ I forgot 
my beer. Fetch it, there, will you ? 
and some for George, and a six- 
pence to the one that comes first.” 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 43 


That cleared a few youngsters off, 
but the others were more firmly 
rooted; so he seized the whip from 
the hands of the inanimate George, 
and applying it sharply to the 
horse’s flanks, scattered the others 
by more summary method ; and 
they were over the bridge and out 
of reach of the loiterers with a 
spurt, past young Charlie, too, 
asleep now on the grass behind the 
bridge. At the first turning 
Stephen pulled up sharply. “ Now, 
George, gather your wits. Go 
back to the bridge, and pick up 
young Newhills, and bring him 
here, and take him home. If he’s 
safely here without a following of 
half the fair in three minutes, I’ll 
make it worth your while missing 
the end of the fun.” 

‘‘ Who’re you, sir.” 

“ Oh, what’s that got to do with 
it ? I’ll stay here and keep the 
horse. I won’t steal it. Tie him 
up, if you like.” 


44 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


George groaned, but he got down. 
Stephen looked after him lest he 
should succumb to the temptations 
of the fair, and the old man looked 
back at the horse and cart lest the 
queer stranger should bolt with 
them. In five minutes Charlie was 
lying placidly with his head on a 
heap of straw in the back of the 
cart, and Stephen giving more 
orders. 

Drive him home; send him to 
bed. Don’t tell his father. Do 
the blowing up yourself. And 
here’s for your trouble.” 

George drove off with a dazed 
feeling that Stephen was the drunk 
man, interfering with the affairs of 
a quiet, sober family, as, o’ course, 
he had no right to do. But he felt 
the half-crowns in his pocket with 
some satisfaction; and they were 
gradually effacing the memory of 
the stranger’s cool insolence, when 
something unfamiliar in the motion 
of his vehicle discovered to him 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 45 


that the horse he drove had never 
been driven by him before. 

Meanwhile, Stephen had made 
his way back to the neighborhood 
of the fair. The girl was still 
standing by the bridge, stolidly, 
almost sullenly. She was looking 
at the lights with resentment in her 
gaze. When he came up she did 
not move. 

‘‘Why didn’t you go home too? 
Don’t you live near them? ” 

“Ay,” she said laconically. 

“And now you’ll have to walk.” 

“ I wasn’t going home wi’ 

“ Is he — your brother ? ” 

“ Noa.” Then the silence that 
followed was broken by an out- 
burst from the girl, almost tearful. 

“’E took me ’ere, an’ ’e left me, 
an’ went to the public, an’ afore 
’alf an hour was over ’e wasna fit 
to be seen. ’E’s no but a boy, an’ 
they tempted ’im for fun.” 

Stephen had been preparing 
some consolation or advice for the 


46 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


situation. But the tone of the girl 
changed his mood. Looking by 
the light of a loitering gig, he had 
a quick revelation of the girl; of 
her short, spare figure, weather- 
tanned face, honest eyes, and pur- 
poseful chin. From the bony, 
austere face her hair was dragged 
tightly back under a hat, a desper- 
ate feat of rustic millinery, groan- 
ing and rattling with ornament. 
The loose, heavy black mantle, 
too, the skirt of some crude color, 
the square-toed, shiny boots, all 
told of distinct effort after adorn- 
ment, little charm, no successful 
coquetry. Perhaps Stephen did 
not see all the details, but he did 
see a young figure standing by him 
with all the marks of heavy, daily 
toil about it; a creature not born 
for much enjoyment, but hunger- 
ing after a scanty share, and bitter 
when defrauded. 

‘‘He's spoilt your holiday, 
then?" 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 47 


‘‘A never thought to come till 
'e bade me. An’ a was up by 
three this morning, an’ did the 
ironing, an’ all the Work; for the 
mistress is fra ’ome.” A hard sob 
interrupted her, and Stephen filled 
in the gap with a picture of hurry 
and bustle in the farm kitchen, and 
feats of needlework in her bedroom 
that she might be a credit to the 
fair and the company. ‘‘An’ now, 
a never been in at all,” she went 
on, looking at the lighted meadow. 
“A waited for ’im ’ere, and then 
a went an* fetched ’im out. His 
folk’s very respectable. A’m in 
service wi’ them.” 

“Well, but you can go in now, 
since you haven’t gone home with 
him.” 

“A don’t know nobody. A’m 
a stranger ’ere. An’ a’ll just be 
movin’ ’ome now. A’m obliged 
to ye,” she said, with great 
formality. 

Stephen was struck with the 


48 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


pathos of the plain, squat figure. 
He did not like to think of her 
going by that dark road alone, 
bitter with disappointment. 
Surely, joylessness was not a 
good thing. 

‘‘Then come to the fair with 
me. I haven't been in either." 

The girl stood stiffly, and said, 
“Noa; a'll be stepping ’ome 
now." 

“ Would he be angry with you ? " 

She tossed her head. “Tm? 
Angry ? An' what for should 'e 
be angry, a'd like to know. It 
would do 'im good. 'E thinks be- 
cause nobody speaks to me 'e can 
do as 'e likes. A'll let 'im see a 
can enjoy myself without 'im," she 
went on inconsequently. 

“Then you must come with me, 
that's clear." Her matter-of-fact 
tone, her manner, rather that of a 
wife who has learned by experience 
how to manage a husband than of 
a mistress toward her lover, con- 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 49 


vinced him she knew best. Come 
along ! ” She gave one distrustful 
look into Stephen's face, and then 
followed him slowly. 

They passed through the open- 
ing in the fence, and their eyes 
were dazzled by the lights flash- 
ing on the geegaws on the stalls. 
“Let's look round first," said 
Stephen. The girl at his heels 
was a lonely creature, for all her 
• holiday attire and her brave 
escort. But no one had time to 
notice that they were misfits. He 
stopped before each stall, resolved 
to go through the business in all 
thoroughness. Every article might 
have come from the fairs of his 
youth — the glass beads, blue, red, 
yellow, and white; the boxes with 
roses on the lids, and the boxes 
stuck all over with sea-shells; the 
sickly, elongated dolls; the hand 
mirrors; the artificial flowers; the 
vases resplendent in green and gilt; 
the toy watches; the red-painted 


50 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


toy guns; the gilt watch-chains; 
the brass sleeve-links; the brooches 
studded with rubies; the red glass 
tumbler inscribed with tender 
mottoes. Here, at last, he had 
come to something stable in the 
fashions of the world. At the 
back of these glories a smiling, 
rosy woman handled them to the 
best advantage, and recommended 
them in winning tone. But the 
damsel was shy, and Stephen 
guessed rather than learned that 
to the blue beads she was not all 
indifference. Then came the stall 
with gingerbread and bull's-eyes 
and cakes sprinkled with colored 
sugar, and sweet sticks wrapped 
in paper of silver and gilt. The 
girl stood one moment with 
childish delight on her face, then 
slunk away. Stephen made his 
purchases, the sweetest and 
gaudiest he could find, without her 
company, and when she thrust 
them awkwardly into the pockets 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 5 1 


of her mantle, he began to fear his 
fairing was not to be a success. 
Then came a stall where six shots 
could be had for a penny at dolls 
with hideously grotesque coun- 
tenances. The girl would not 
take her turn at first, but she 
laughed when Stephen knocked 
the dolls down; and his heart grew 
lighter, his voice more confident, 
till he had persuaded her to try 
a shot, too, and even to ride in 
a merry-go-round. The jubilant 
noise, the laughing, the music be- 
gan to take effect; and she walked 
briskly by his side, and when he 
stopped near the bapd there was 
a look of eager expectation on her 
face. Now was it the young man’s 
turn to be nervous, for Ruddington 
dances had not prepared him for 
the ordeal of leading a stolid farm- 
damsel through the mazes of the 
quadrille just beginning. But 
Stephen had valor and chivalry in 
his soul. He knew what was ex- 


52 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


pected of him, and he led Arabella 
— her name was Arabella, he had 
learned — to a vacant place, with 
grave courtesy. A moment after 
he was leading no longer. The 
music struck up in earnest. 
Round about him were swains in 
their shining black coats, or in 
corduroys; flushed damsels in blue 
merinoes and white muslins; all 
breathing lusty health and spirits. 
Below his feet was the springy 
meadow soil. The dance wanted 
perhaps the airy grace of Rudding- 
ton’s select set, but for strictness 
of etiquette and rigid adherence 
to the figures, Stephen had never 
seen its equal. It was Arabella 
who piloted him, who spurred him 
to propriety of demeanor, to con- 
scientiousness of step. Her shy- 
ness had vanished ; she was full 
of grave, businesslike enjoyment, 
shirked no twist nor turn, and 
footed it bravely. When the 
figure had been gone through. 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 53 


Stephen complimented her in all 
sincerity. 

‘‘It’s three year, come Martinmas, 
since I danced before. But there’s 
the music again. We’ll best be 
beginning, too. It’s a polka.” 

Here indeed was a partner that 
had not to be searched for in the 
recesses of the ballroom. It was 
a polka, and never till now had 
Stephen learned how energetic a 
dance that maybe. He had mostly 
sat it out in Ruddington. Here 
for fourteen heated minutes he 
danced it up and down, and round 
and round, and across and athwart 
and between, and up and down 
again, with Arabella ; and if she 
planted a heavy boot clump down 
on the grass at each step, she raised 
it deftly again, and asked no re- 
spite, so full of zest and agility and 
vigor was she. They were the last 
couple in the field. Then came a 
waltz, a schottische, and more polka, 
and more quadrille before Stephen 


54 


OUT OF bounds. 


took pity on another lonely 
maiden standing out. Consigning 
his special lady to a very willing 
young man — for the vigor of her 
dancing was appreciated by this 
time — he let the new girl guide 
him through a country-dance, the 
Haymakers. As Arabella and her 
cavalier passed under the arch he 
and his fresh partner made with 
their hands, she smiled broadly 
and genially to him, and when the 
haymakers had gone to rest she let 
herself be led away to be regaled 
with cakes and lemonade and 
oranges at the nearest stall. 

Then they answered the invita- 
tion of the haughty gentleman, 
who, having entertained the 
crowned heads of Europe with 
his vanishing lady and his invisible 
seraphs* choir, was patriotically 
condescending to show these won- 
ders here to-night — the last chance 
— for the benefit of the rural popu- 
lation, the backbone of our glorious 


AMUSEMEI^TS OF THE PEOPLE, 55 

England, before his tour in Wales 
and South Africa; and all for two- 
pence. An inferior exhibition at 
London Aquarium cost you one 
shilling — would you believe it? 
Arabella was solemnly impressed, 
but inarticulate. She sat on a 
bench, and folded her rough hands 
over each other, as if she had been 
in church. The haughty show- 
man’s eloquence, the unhealthy 
beauties of the lady, the crash of 
the invisible seraphs’ music, did 
not touch the springs of her 
vitality, and Stephen was glad to 
get out of the stuffy tent into the 
air and to see the stars glimmer 
steel-like and pale above the flaring 
red and yellow of his oil-lamps. 

The dancers were “set” again, 
and thicker set than ever. There 
was only space for them — his part- 
ner and himself — near the fence by 
the stream, if Arabella should show 
signs of wishing for more. And, 
of course, she did. Her being 


56 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


lighted up, her body swayed with a 
rhythm which had nothing of the 
heavy movements of her walk, and 
Stephen ‘^set*' to her with formal 
politeness, as he had seen the rustic 
cavaliers do. She had just begun 
the preliminary swing to and fro, 
when a cry from the other side of 
the stream sent them apart. There 
was something in the water — it was 
too dark to see what till he had 
leaped the fence. On the opposite 
bank two van children were scream- 
ing and gesticulating. Another, 
he of the fishing-rod, shouted that 
Jim had fallen in. A woman came 
running up, and in her excitement 
shook the children that were stand- 
ing in safety. By this time Stephen 
was there — deep in the stream — 
and calling for a light. Someone 
extemporized a torch ; the boy with 
the fishing-rod beckoned, and ran 
along the bank toward the bridge ; 
Stephen was floundering on among 
stones and weeds in deeper water. 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 57 


and the contradictory suggestions 
of the lookers-on, when his foot 
touched something soft and yield- 
ing, and the moon, rising out of a 
soft hazy strip of clouds, fell on 
something white, a little hand clasp- 
ing fast the rushes on the bank, 
and a little draggled head resting 
on the earth by his side. Stephen 
had the child in his arms in a 
moment. The distracted woman 
pointed to a van, and the crowds 
that had been gathered by the alarm 
made it nearly impossible for him 
to reach it. He was blessed, and 
the child was hugged, and its 
brothers and sisters cursed loud 
enough to drown all the hygienic 
advice he dispensed ; but the arrival 
of Arabella, with a kettle of steam- 
ing water from the inn kitchen, 
brought back the woman’s wits. 
Arabella came out, some ten min- 
utes later, to say the child was now 
drinking hot ale and strong tea 
with evident enjoyment. ‘‘’E aint 


58 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


taken no ’arm, an’ it ’ll be a lesson,” 
she said to the groaning, sym- 
pathetic women by the door. She 
was helpful, but had little sen- 
timent. 

The drowning incident had 
cleared the dancing-green, and the 
band, jaded after their long day, 
had retired to the inn for refresh- 
ment before closing time. Now 
closing time had come; the groups 
thickened before the inn door, 
straggled into the meadow to see 
the stall-keepers packing up ; but the 
young men’s vitality not being yet 
all used up, there was much scamp- 
ering and pulling and chasing and 
laughter. A whistling, elated man 
began to dance all by himself, and 
soon the jeering group around him 
became dancers too ; and from 
somewhere a fiddle was produced 
and a fiddler, one with a fine twist 
of the arm for ^‘The Wind that 
Shakes, the Barley.” Was it the 
keener air of the later night ; was 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 59 


it the humaner tones of the fiddle ; 
was it the knowledge that the holi- 
day was ending, or the reaction felt 
by those who had watched the res- 
cue of the drowning child ? What- 
ever the reason, the dance was 
faster now and more furious. Some 
of the stalls on wheels had been 
moved away. The swinging boats 
were still, and the shooting gal- 
leries deserted. The dancers 
spread over the meadow, the for- 
malities slackened, perhaps because 
the women were fewer ; yokel 
danced contentedly with yokel, and 
thumbs were cracked, and arms 
were waved, and the old carles by 
the gate nodded humorously to each 
other, and beat on the sod with 
their sticks, and stiffly swayed their 
old bodies since their legs had lost 
obedience to the music. Now with 
Arabella, now without her ; now 
with a lanky, black-headed lad who 
stuttered words of the music-hall to 
the fiddler’s older tunes ; now with 


6o 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


the short and sturdy village post- 
man, ashamed till dark to show 
himself in such an unofficial scene, 
Stephen danced himself warm and 
dry, across the dark meadow and 
back again, cracked his thumbs, 
waved his hands with the rest, 
beamed on Arabella, and laughed 
to the stars, and knew for the first 
time that dancing was invented not 
for polite gatherings and authorized 
flirtations, but to give outlet to the 
unreasoning joy of men. Earlier, 
and in the fuller light, the others 
had been shy of him, looked at him 
sheepishly and suspiciously. Now 
he was but a flying dancer like 
themselves. All were now indis- 
tinguishably part of the night and 
the music. 

But fiddlers are human, and after 
answering to the cries of ‘‘ Faster ! 
Faster ! ” this one had shown signs 
of giving in. At last, with a laugh- 
ing groan, he had fallen down by 
the fence just when the course of 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE, 6 1 

the dance had brought Stephen 
near him. A reproachful cry broke 
from the crowd ; but ere their legs 
had learned to be still, Stephen had 
seized the fiddle and called up what 
little skill he had by aid of the au- 
dacious excitement of the moment. 
He stammered and he bungled, but 
he did it all so ^bravely that his 
‘‘ Flowers of Edinburgh set them 
jiggiiig as merrily as ever. What 
of missed bars, when singing filled 
up the gaps ; or of wrong notes and 
faulty time, when the tune and the 
rhythm were in the dancers* heads 
and feet ? 

They were beaten at last, how- 
ever. Carts and gigs trundled over 
the bridge. There were cries of 
‘‘Jack!’* “Where is Mary?** 
“Father’s been waiting for an 
hour ! ** and at last the lanky black- 
headed carter lad was left to a pas 
seul, and Stephen, handing back the 
fiddle, went to look after his lady. 
On the road near the gate he found 


62 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


her bearing the brunt of George’s 
oaths and grumblings. His dis- 
covery that he had been made to 
steal a strange horse had embittered 
him, and no sooner had he landed 
his sleepy young master in the 
barn, than he had set off to rectify 
the mistake. At the inn he found 
his own dobbin, and the ostler and 
the owner of the other, worn out 
with calling the stable-boy names 
for letting a strange man yoke and 
drive away the best gray mare in 
the parish. His return had been 
an exguse for deep libations of an 
unsoothing liquor, and now he was 
pouring out imprecations on Ara- 
bella for her part in the episode. 
She stood her ground manfully, to 
Stephen’s admiration; and, though 
he did his best in her defense, 
George glared at him with such 
suspicion that he deemed it wiser 
to have some genial talk with the 
old ruffian before bribing him with 
more silver. So by dint of season- 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 63 

able talk and inquiries, and admira- 
tion for the brilliance of the fair 
and his powers of driving, and by 
judicious agreement with George’s 
rare remarks, he managed to cool 
the old fellow’s temper. Silver and 
apologies for trouble were insin- 
uated at a discreet moment, and he 
was free to bid farewell to Ara- 
bella. Had she any anxieties on 
the score of meeting her lover in 
the morning ? None, apparently. 
Was he kind? Oh, yes! he was a 
decent lad, only so foolish. Was 
she to be married to him soon ? 
She didn’t know. He was only 
working on his father’s farm : she 
was a kind of connection, though 
their servant. Would she treat him 
very severely ? Oh, he would be 
mad enough to be brought hoipe. 
But she knew him well. He’d be 
the better, not the worse, for know- 
ing she’d enjoyed herself without 
him. And Stephen devoutly hoped 
he would. 


64 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


In Arabella’s fixed nature reac- 
tion did not readily set in. She 
knew her position. She was a 
hard-working, deserving girl, who 
had made up her mind, not frivo- 
lously, to have a holiday. Her 
lover had nearly cheated her out of 
it, but Providence, in the shape of 
a strange young man she was much 
afraid of, had stepped in to frus- 
trate him. Now, she was going 
back to work, but she had had her 
holiday. Her lover had not — be- 
cause he was a fool. He must 
learn not to be a fool. She would 
work for him, fend for him, but 
when he was a fool he should suffer 
for it. 

‘‘Well, you tell him — if you 
think it wise — that I owe him one 
of the best nights* fun I have ever 
had. Good-night.” 

Arabella muttered a “Good- 
night, sir,” and took his offered 
hand heartily enough. But she did 
not see him doff his hat with cere- 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 65 

mony in the black road, for her 
face was set homeward, and her 
eyes had no longings for him or 
any of the other swains she had 
danced with on the green. 

Binstone seemed out of question 
at this hour, but when he went 
back to the inn by the fair ground, 
it had fallen asleep, it was shut up 
tight, and would not open. The 
tinkers were camped by the stream, 
their horses wandering as far as 
their tethers permitted and crop- 
ping grass quietly. Perhaps the 
man sitting on the steps could 
guide him. The man was slow and 
outlandish of speech, and not much 
interested to hear that Stephen had 
not where to lay his head. Bin- 
stone — about “fower mile,’’ he 
thought. But the inn would be 
shut. It was one i’ the mornin’ 
noo. It was that hot in there, he 
had come out to taste the air. 

The impressionable Stephen 
thought it would be a good thing 


66 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


to taste the air too, though indeed 
he had been doing little else for 
the last six hours. When would 
there be such a night again ? He 
was moving away when the man 
betokened a sudden interest. 
‘‘Are ye the gintleman that picked 
out my littr un ? he asked in an 
accent from over the Border. 

“Oh, that was your child, was 
it ? Narrow shave for a little chap, 
though he was lying where there 
was hardly enough water to cover 
him. A dangerous playground.’* 
“Ay, ay, just that. It’s so very 
cunning. They’re hardy, they’re 
hardy. But they maun be learnt. 
Are you ? I didna richt hear who 
ye might be ! ” 

“Oh, I’m a stranger wandering 
about for a bit of fun.” 

“ What line are ye in ? ” 

“Line? Well, I hardly know. 
The fact is, I’m waiting for a job. 
I’ll sit with you a bit, if you don’t 
mind. ” 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 67 

The man’s pipe was empty. Ste- 
phen handed him his pouch, and 
accepted a light, and on the steps 
of the van they sat puffing and 
watching the stars. Old habit, 
strong in Stephen, prompted him 
to draw the tinker out on the sub- 
ject of his wandering life, its ethics, 
codes, domestic disadvantages. 
But the man was unresponsive, and 
was soon nodding, with his head 
against the van. When he woke 
he led his guest to a sheltered spot 
at the back of the jivagon, and 
fetched some straw for his head. 

The sun had risen when Stephen 
woke; a dog’s cold nose was snuf- 
fing about his ear, and a child 
scampered off as he raised his head. 
Where was he? Some place where 
birds were singing loud and children 
shouting, and women scolding them 
to be quiet and not wake the gentle- 
man. The camp was on the move 
when he got up and shook his 
memory into action. 


68 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


‘‘Ah,” said a woman, “ye had 
but a hard bed. We had dune 
better for ye, had we kent ye were 
near. An' the little nickums, 
they’ll no be quiet i* the mornin’, 
an’ we’re askin’ yer pardon fer dis- 
turbin’ ye, but we’ve to be oot o’ 
this in half an ’our’s time.” 

“I slept sound enough, and if 
I’m stiff, ’tis because I danced last 
night. Glorious morning ! ” 

“ That it is, an’ will ye have yer 
breakfast ? ” 

“Breakfast? Why, yes,” 

“ Here, Jimmy, run for the loaf. 
Run like a man, noo. This is the 
gintleman that tuk ye out o’ the 
water, or the trouts would hae bin 
ating ye by noo. Run, or I fetch 
the tea.” 

The tea was black and boiled, 
and Jimmy’s fingers that held the 
loaf not very clean, but you are 
less fastidious after a night in the 
open, and with a sunny stream purl- 
ing and glinting below you, and the 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 69 

birds singing right over your head. 
The trout was fresh caught and 
well cooked, and Jimmy’s heart was 
won more completely when Stephen 
spread on the grass for him at a 
safe distance morsels of the dead 
fish than by his mother’s constant 
reminder that he might be now food 
for the living ones, but for the 
gentleman’s devotion. When the 
camp moved on it was only common 
civility to accompany it for some 
way; so, forgetting resolutions 
anent soap and water at the inn, he 
took Jimmy’s hand and passed The 
Stump and Wickets as part of the 
tinkers’ procession. 

The youngsters were frisky: so 
were the dogs; the sun played in 
silver and gold in the foreground. 
Behind it, whitened and glazed, 
lay the mist on the moorland. The 
wind was up, but only for soft 
playfulness. The silent Scotsman 
cracked his whip at the horses’ 
heads in a pleasant fashion, and a 


70 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


woman sat inside the van, singing 
to her baby. Stephen felt the 
morning trickle into him, and 
dusty and tumbled as he was, the 
wind washed his eyes and his soul. 
The wagons were heavily laden, so 
it was a slow procession, giving the 
children time to run races to and 
fro for Stephen's half-pence. He 
ran himself, and so did the barking 
dogs, till at a turn in the road the 
man bade him seek Binstone on the 
right. The children looked wist- 
fully after him; their father pulled 
his pipe out of his mouth and never 
stuck it in again till he had van- 
ished, and the woman and the baby 
looked out of the van door with 
thanks and blessings. 

There, Jimmy, leave the gintle- 
man alone. Ah, you’re a kind 
gintleman, you are ! ” followed him 
down the hedge-bordered lane, till 
he felt he must rob an orchard or 
assault a harmless passer-by to re- 
cover his self-respect. 


AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE. 7 1 


Was his holiday over ? Yes, of 
course it was, and high time. 
Really there was no telling what 
pranks Fate might make you play 
when it let you loose in the country. 
He laughed and chuckled and 
blushed as he thought of last night. 
A pampered young man does not 
emerge from his luxurious domes- 
ticity to dance madly with vigorous 
peasants, rescue young damsels 
from drunken lovers, and sleep 
with tinkers in the open air, with- 
out blushing. Then — perhaps it 
was fatigue, perhaps it was con- 
science — but the sky clouded over, 
and he thought of Sibyl and his 
meetings, and the little book he 
had thrown into the wicked stream- 
let yesterday. He must go home, 
and not do it again. Really, in his 

position — oh, d his position ! 

He wanted a holiday as much as 
Arabella, and why shouldn’t he 
have one ? When did he have one ? 
Well, he had gone yachting not so 


72 


our OF BOUNDS. 


long ago, and had been to Paris 
with his mother, and to Switzer- 
land nine months ago with his 
sisters and his aunts; yet, after all, 
tahle-d'hdte and the best company 
were perhaps not the last words 
on a holiday, he reflected, as he 
walked, a disheveled, grimy man 
into The Wild Goose at Binstone. 


CHAPTER IV. 


irn wbtcb Sedoue ©ereone are 
^ritlcD with* 

IS bag was there ; his bed 
had been prepared, and 
his dinner. His breakfast 
would be ready in half an hour. 
Hot water flowed for him at once. 
They were very deferential in spite 
of his non-appearance last night 
and his tumbled appearance now; 
and Stephen wondered why. When 
he redescended, The Wild Goose 
had rarely seen a sprucer young 
man; he was fit again to preside at 
a board meeting; and the landlady 
became even more officiously at- 
tentive. 

His mind being dutifully made 
up to catch the first train back to 



73 


74 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


Fulford, with a newborn inconsis- 
tency he lingered over his meal, 
read the county newspaper through, 
and stared into the bustling street 
— it was market day — with his 
hands in his pockets. Then he 
stood by the inn-door for a little, 
yawned once or twice, recollected 
that it became him to take an intel- 
ligent, closer view of the life of a 
country town. An old country- 
man, standing near, was talking to 
a white-headed lad, and as Stephen 
moved away, he heard the elder 
whisper, ‘‘That’s ’im; that’s im”; 
but he did not look round. 

“Oh, that’s ’im, is it?” said the 
lad. “Well, now, George, I’ve 
got my eye on that young gent 
for the rest o’ the day. Take the 
heifer along; I’m busy. Mind you 
go home all right.” 

The young fellow turned into the 
courtyard of the inn, and George 
went off, shaking his head. But 
Charlie of Newhills was bent not on 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH, 75 


refreshment, but information; and 
his friend the boots would be com- 
municative. 

“Who’s the swell you’ve got, 
Tom, Isay? Him as went down 
the street just now wi’ a cigar in’s 
mouth and shiny toes ? ” 

“Oh, that’s Mr. Ayres— Mr. 
Stephen Ayres,” said Boots, with 
dignity. 

“ The member ? Oh, my ! ” 

“ Well, I s’pose so. That’s ’is 
name, aint it ? I’m new to your 
members ’ere.” 

“What’s ’e up to ? ” 

“ Up to ? Meetings, I s’pose. 
’E’s posted in blue all over the 
place. Seein’ ’is constitooents, I 
s’pose. That’s me.” 

“Oh, my eye! I don’t believe 
’e’s no such thing. It’s all gam- 
mon.” 

“Well, ye can wait an’ ax ’im, 
can’t ye ? Though I don’t believe 
he’d answer little boys as aint got 
no votes.” 


76 


our OF BOUNDS. 


Charlie, feeling himself at least 
on an equality with Boots, ad- 
ministered a hasty cuff, swung out 
of the yard whistling, stopped, 
scratched his head, and then 
grimaced all over his sly face. 

Rummy! was all he said. Into 
the market place he hied, where he 
was hail-fellow-well-met with every 
farmer, farmer's man, and boy. 
But to-day he did not pay marked 
attention to his own particular 
friends. There was another prin- 
ciple than geniality in his selection 
of those on whom he lavished his 
courtesies. They were about nine 
or ten in all to whom he talked, 
separately, with much dignity, about 
turnips, and the weather, and his 
father's health, by way of prelimi- 
nary to something of this sort. 
‘‘You know Ayres is in town — at 
The Wild Goose. Just seen 'im. 
Meeting in the evening ? Yes, I 
should think so. 'E's well posted. 
But there's deppytations, too. 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 77 


Going ? No ? Benson’s goin’. 
Oh! ye’d better go, and ’aye yer 
jaw -out. No room for ye in the 
evenin’; lots are goin’. Quite in- 
formal, ye know. What o’clock ? 
Twelve o’clock at The Wild Goose.” 

With the particular specimens he 
shrewdly selected, and within six 
weeks or so of the general elec- 
tion, it was enough. Charlie knew 
there would be a midday gathering 
of cranks and fanatics at the inn, 
and to have the laugh of them 
would be a good enough joke, 
though he would try to make it a 
little more complete, to pay out 
that impudent swell that had sent 
him home to bed last night like a 
naughty baby. Whether he was 
the member or not, what did it 
matter ? Perhaps he could torment 
him either way, he thought, as he 
turned into Mr. Ayres’ (the elder’s) 
committee-rooms to hatch part 
two. The room was deserted save 
by a pliant lad of thirteen, glad to 


78 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


be interrupted in the folding of 
circulars. Meanwhile the word 
spread through the market place 
that Ayres had come, and was ex- 
pecting deputations; and some were 
profoundly indifferent, and some 
were much excited and wished they 
lived nearer so that they might have 
put on their best, not their second- 
best clothes, to air their views in. 
Little hole-and-corner committees 
were held behind booths, and as 
far as possible from the ears of 
Ayres' own recognized committee- 
men, who might venture to inter- 
fere with extemporized deputations 
and unauthorized expressions of 
opinion. 

Meanwhile Stephen was wander- 
ing about the little town, watching 
the butter-women at their stalls, 
and the cattle in the pens. Seeing 
bunches of the freshest and most 
fragrant of auriculas and narcissus 
in a woman’s basket, he bought 
them and spent nearly half an 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 79 

hour in having them packed. At 
the post-office he was about to 
address them to Sibyl; then he 
pictured her thinking him very 
kind, but just a trifle wasteful and 
absurd. She had narcissus and 
auriculas blooming at her own 
doors. She would send off Ellen, 
her maid, to take them to the 
Convalescent Home. It was right 
to give flowers to convalescent 
homes, but Stephen liked his gifts 
to stay where they were sent. To 
whom then? To Arabella? He 
could see her stiff red hands clasped 
round them as she squeezed them 
into a tight vase, and put them in 
the farmhouse parlor where no one 
ever sat, wishing all the time they 
were artificial, that she might wear 
them in her bonnet. To whom 
then ? Well, there was always 
Maisie Hearn. She would not send 
them to a convalescent home, and 
she would handle them daintily, and 
give them room to turn to the light, 


8o 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


and shed their fragrance about her 
when her work was over. He could 
see a questioning smile in her eye 
as she wondered where they had 
come from. Sentiment was not a 
pain to Maisie. He did not know 
her address. But what of that ? 
She was at Haydons, and her em- 
ployers were — well, they used to be 
the Tempests. So with a vague 
direction the box was dispatched, 
and Stephen felt the holiday mood 
gaining on him again. He would 
not go just yet. So he stood in 
the market place, and wondered 
whether he should like to be a 
young farmer selling corn, or show- 
ing himself off on a spirited horse — 
like that one with the rosy cheeks 
and buff-colored gaiters — before 
the belles of Binstone. Then he 
scanned the placards, the sales of 
timber, of cottages, of meadow 
land, the meetings of all dates dur- 
ing the last nine months; learned 
that the famous Coffey family were 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 8 1 

to give their unique high-class 
dramatic entertainment that even- 
ing, and, last of all, read his uncle’s 
name in staring blue characters. 
The member would address his con- 
stituents that very evening in the 
new Public Hall, and Sir William 
Buckhunt would take the chair. 
Phew ! Stephen’s mind reverted 
to the railway station with decisive 
longing. He didn’t want to be 
dragged into this thing. But at 
that moment a boy full of blushes 
and stammering words came out of 
the member’s committee-rooms, 
and, touching his cap, said: 

Your uncle — a mean to say, 
Mr. Ayres — well, ’e says, will ye 
be so good as to see about the 
deppytations ? ” 

“ The what ?” 

“The deppytations! Twelve 
o’clock, at The Wild Goose, sir, 
and it was yer uncle I was to say.” 

The missing links in this in- 
coherence were partly supplied by 


82 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


Stephen’s family instincts and ex- 
perience. Just what his uncle 
would do, hearing he was in the 
place — make use of him, of course. 
It was too absurd. He would have 
nothing to do with the thing. He 
would fetch his bag and flee. 

He did not hear a peal of 
laughter from a white-headed lad 
who had been nervously watching 
his accomplice’s success from be- 
hind a booth, or know that the 
imp was following him to the inn 
with as near an imitation of gait 
and manner as impudence and five 
feet three can approach to the stal- 
wart dignity of five feet eleven. 

They are waiting for you, sir.” 

Waiting ? They were crowding 
in the upper coffee room. What 
did they want? Who were they? 

‘‘Some gentlemen to see Mr. 
Ayres. Well, there’s Mr. Miller 
of the Knoll, and Mr. Berry, and 
Mr. Sinker, and some I don’t know. 
Shall I ask them to step up ? ” 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 83 

His native habit of being gener- 
ally ready to see gentlemen on all 
kinds of business, a youthful in- 
stinct of obedience to his uncle, and 
some malicious hope of doing mis- 
chief, continued to prevent his stop- 
ping their entry. They filed in, 
seven or eight of them, and he 
greeted them civilly. In a minute 
they had rather ostentatiously 
divided themselves into two camps, 
or rather tents. Three men in 
corduroys, their hats in their 
hands, wiping their brows with the 
backs of their hands, shuffled be- 
hind a tall, loose man with a scared 
face, their spokesman. 

‘‘ Maister Ayres,’* he began 
timidly, and looking at the other 
group with suspicion. 

‘‘Will you be seated ? ” 

“We — my friends an’ me” — he 
looked at his comrades sternly, and 
they wiped their faces more and 
more, and scraped their shoes. “I 
— we, Maister Ayres, are glad to 


84 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


see ye. Glad to see ye, ye know, 
amongst us.*' 

There was a pause that Stephen 
felt impelled to fill with a Thank 
you." 

Ye've been long o' cornin'. 
But, there, we don't say nothin'. 
Ye're younger than I took ye for, 
ye'll excuse me. Maybe it's better 
we should see ye this private kind 
o' way first, for at them big meet- 
ings like to-night, there's alius 
folks ready to prevent our plain 
speaking out. An' this business o' 
ours is not just to be spoken of but 
in private." His voice fell rapidly 
to a hoarse whisper. “Well, now, 
as you 'ave come " 

There was a mistake. Persona- 
tion was an electoral crime; did it 
include involuntary personation of 
the sitting member ? 

“ I beg your pardoo;!, gentle- 
men," began Stephen. “You take 
me for " 


“Not at all, sir; not at all, sir! 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 85 

Don’t you name it. ’Twas only 
my rough way. There’s bigger 
places than Binstone with more 
votes, an’ there’s London. But 
now I’ll just say, we’re plain 
farmers, and we’ve got our chil- 
dren’s bread to earn, and this rail- 
way business must be put a stop to 
i’ Parleyment or out of it.” He 
was whispering now in Stephen’s 
ear, but the other group, crowding 
nearer, could without difficulty 
share the whispered confidence. 
The look of a hanger-on of the 
second group, a white-haired boy, 
struck on Stephen’s eye uneasily, 
and while his mind was wandering 
in its inquiry, he lost another 
chance of explanation. 

It’s just a warnin’ I’m givin’ ye; 
a warnin’ ye’ll not get in yer fine 
meetin’s. There’s votes in it.” 

“Be you in favor o’ this railway 
business, or be ye not ? ” 

“ Stop a minute, gentlemen. I 
am only here as a deputy ” 


86 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


“Ah — we know that — ourdepitty. 
But it’s your own straight opinion 
we want, and no beat’n about the 
bush. Be you for the railway or 
agin it ? ” 

The man glared at him for an 
answer, and his public training had 
nursed in him instincts of suavity. 

“Well, you see, I haven’t had 
much opportunity of studying your 
local questions.” (Murmurs from 
all. “Oh!” in a pained voice 
from the fair-haired boy.) 

“ That’s what we’ve always said,” 
went on Mr. Berry. “And yer 
blessed secretaries and committees 
tell ye what they like, and they tell 
’ee wrong. Well, now, in one 
corner o’ this constitooency it won’t 
be a question o’ politics this time, 
but of butter.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Stephen politely. 
His uncle would be grateful for 
him to hand on these important 
tips. 

“Yes, of butter,” roared the 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH, 87 

man, forgetting his caution in face 
of the other group. 

‘‘ Hear, hear! ” from the boy. 

‘‘We*re Shelton men here, and 
there^s a sight o’ votes from Shel- 
ton going to him as will stop this 
railway business; and politics be 

d d, says we. It’s a question 

of our daily bread ” 

“And butter,” whispered the 
boy. Mr. Berry accepted the sug- 
gestion. 

“And butter. Ay, that’s it. 
We here, my friends and me — and 
speaks for more, doan’t we ? ’’ 
turning round fiercely on his com- 
panions, who scraped their feet, 
coughed, flushed, and then shut 
their eyes by way of corroboration. 
“We here, and our fathers and 
mothers, have made all the butter 
that’s worth naming for Binstone 
and Ilworth markets for genera- 
tions. Two years ago our living 
was threatened when Parleyment — 
you’ll call to mind — made that rail- 


88 


our OF BOUNDS. 


way on to Earndale. For folks are 
flighty about butter as about all 
else, and the Earndale folks thought 
to send Binstone and hereabouts, as 
is a tillage country, their milk and 
butter and cut us out. You remem- 
ber. There was a deppytation, but 
the cattle disease or something 
supravened, and it didn’t rightly 
come off. Well, to cut it short, 
that railway’s been so mismanaged, 
and the trains that uncertain, and 
the rates that high, sir ” 

Stephen’s attention had been 
wandering, and awakened to a 
sense of the railway’s shortcoming 
by the emphatic, ‘‘ Sir,” murmured, 
‘‘Dear, dear!” in a sympathetic 
tone. 

“That mismanaged that Earn- 
dale folk hadna a chance, and we’ve 
the dairy trade to ourselves entire 
now,” he said triumphantly. 

Stephen was a little bewildered. 
“Well, that sounds very satisfac- 
tory — for you.” 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 8g 

‘‘The railway shareholders have 
been losing money every year,’' 
Berry went on, heeding no inter- 
ruption. “But there’s a agitation 
afoot. The B — shire Railway want 
to run over that line, and they’re 
rich and used to runnin’ trains, and 
extend it farther into Earndale. 
We’ll have all the trouble over 
again. An’ I tell ye, sir, we over 
in Shelton don’t want that railway. 
We drive our butter and eggs to 
Binstone and Inverne, and the rail- 
way’s needed no more than the way 
you have it now, a train or so a 
day, and get them when you can. 
And why should Shelton dairy 
farmers be spoilt to help the other 
folks that haven’t made a market 
of their own all these years ? An’ 
that’s what we’ve come to say. 
And ye’ll get no votes from the 
Earndale folks, because they 
haven’t got any — not for you. 
They’re over the county border. 
You can’t see all up in London, not 


go 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


wi’ our eyes. And so just tell my 
words to the Government we’re 
supportin’, but private-like. They 
aint for public meetin’s.” 

‘‘While entirely dissociating my- 
self from my friend Mr. Berry’s 

views ” began a lean, dark man 

with the look of a lay-preacher. 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, allow 
me a word ! This is very interest- 
ing, but it doesn’t concern me very 
closely. I am not in Parliament. 
I am not my uncle. I was not 
aware that you took me for him. 
I am Stephen Ayres of Fulford, 
here mostly by chance, and deputed 
by my uncle to see some of his 
friends till he is free to see them 
himself.” 

The dairy deputation fell back 
shamefaced and aggrieved. 

“ Oh, you might ha’ told! It got 
about you were the member. An’ 
we was speakin’ in strick confi- 
dence.” 

“ Let’s give him messages for’s 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 9 1 


uncle,’’ said the boy. don’t be- 
lieve he’s got no uncle,” he snig- 
gered. 

Mr. Sinker, the lean, dark man, 
frowned him down. 

Mr. Ayres, your pardon ! We 
have unwarrantably intruded, ow- 
ing to erroneous information ” — 
a scowl at the boy. ‘^But permit 
me, since you have so graciously 
listened to what these gentlemen 
have to say, and let me once again 
entirely dissociate myself from their 
views, which, were your uncle to 
accept as representing any impor- 
tant section of his constituents, 
would for certain” — here he smiled 
blandly — ‘‘ cost him — well, his seat 
at St. Stephen’s. Permit me just 
to explain my reason for still in- 
truding. We are not so out of the 
world in Binstone but your own 
reputation is well known. Your 
public-spirited conduct has been, 
so to speak — er — er — bruited 
abroad. I think I can interest you 


92 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


then in a matter vitally affecting 
us, and a word from you to your 
esteemed relative would naturally 
carry more weight than letters 
from an insignificant person like 
myself. I may say, sir, my name 
is not unknown to Mr. Ayres, in 
connection with this subject. Sir,” 
he went on with a deeper solem- 
nity, “ I could unfold to him, were 
he to listen, a picture of the inner 
state of Binstone that would make 
him fly to investigate — investigate, 
did I say ? — to utterly uproot — fly 
by a quicker train than our rural 
friends deem enough for the needs 
of the neighborhood. Binstone, 
sir, is seamed with intemperance ! ” 
A sympathetic groan from the boy. 
‘‘Let me give you a few statis- 
tics,” Sinker went on, adopting a 
more cheerful tone. “The adult 
inhabitants amount to nine hundred 
and fifty-seven, and the number of 
public houses, or places where malt 
or spirituous liquors can be ob- 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 93 

tained, is eleven. The poison is 
sold to children of tender years, 
and yet your uncle, our esteemed 
Mr. Ayres, in his ignorance — I re- 
gret to use strong terms — said this 
from his place in the House of 
of Commons only three months 
ago.” Here a yellow, crumpled 
newspaper-cutting was produced. 
It was Stephen's turn to groan. 
‘‘Yes, indeed, you may groan”; 
and Sinker read with more gusto, 
and amid such coughs and scrapings 
and spittings that only the reader 
had a clear notion of the wicked 
ignorance of the member’s words. 
“ Do you know, sir, there is hardly 
a house here that contains not one 
victim of the fell malady ? ” (Loud 
dissent from the rural deputation. ) 
“ It is so. And think of Thursford 
Fair last night. Such scenes ! ” 
Sinker lifted his voice and hands, 
and Stephen his head. This was 
growing dangerous. “Scenes of 
orgy, revelry, immorality ! ” 


94 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


can bear all that out, sir,’' 
said the boy; and one of the rural 
deputation flushed, grimaced, and 
shrank behind his neighbors. “I 
can bear all that out,” went on the 
imp. “I was there. An’ I never — 
well, I never did — an’ the respect- 
able folks, too, so called.” 

Sinker glared at the boy, but 
recovered himself. See this 
youth, even. I am sorry he was a 
witness, but the knowledge and the 
sight of iniquity may be a warning, 
and I get corroboration from him. 
Dancing till the small hours, ribald 
laughter of vacant minds, reeling 
men, lost to all “^ense of human 
dignity ! I was an unwilling witness, 
and alas! my daughters, too. While 
driving home from drinking tea 
with some of our connection, my 
pony’s straps broke, near Thurs- 
ford inn, and I had to borrow a 
rope. While I waited my heart 
sank — bled for my country. You 
would hardly believe the scene ” 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH, 95 


**0h, sir, he’d believe it. He 
was there, too. Saw more’n I did. 
I went home early — couldn’t bide 
the company. But our George 
says he left ’im there, keeping it up. 
Didn’t sleep at Binstone, did you, 
sir ? ” The imp was half in and 
half out of the door, and beyond 
the reach of punishment. 

‘‘The infernal little rascal!” 
thought Stephen. But he laughed. 
“Perhaps you exaggerate, Mr. 
Tink — Sinker. The amusements 
of the people I have always taken 
great interest in, and the local 
investigation I made last night 
showed that a good deal of noise 
is compatible with innocence.” 

“No, sir; no, sir! These were 
not the sounds of innocence. And 
permit me to say that I wonder 
one of the name of Ayres — one who 
— pardon the liberty — aspires to 
represent our neighbors in the 
Rawe division — well, well, one 
hears rumors — aspires, at least, to 


g6 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


represent a community, let us say, 
full of temptation, as are all human 
communities, in the great Parlia- 
mentary assembly, I wonder he 
should speak lightly of such scenes, 
and even mingle in them with 
tolerance.’* 

‘‘Gentlemen,” said Stephen, at 
an end of his patience, and wonder- 
ing where his uncle was hiding, 
“your company is delightful. I’ll 
let Mr. Ayres know that a really 
convenient railway would spoil the 
butter trade of Shelton and his own 
chances of re-election, and that the 
public houses and the markets 
round Binstone are a disgrace to 
civilization.” 

The irresponsible flippancy of his 
tones offended the men. The 
dairy farmers looked glum and 
muttered under their breath. The 
more articulate Sinker gave voice 
to their, feelings. 

“ Mr. Ayres, we should not have 
come to-day, had we not imagined 


SMRIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 97 

it an opportunity for talking to our 
representative face to face. Per- 
haps you are interested enough in 
your uncle's affairs to tell him from 
us the tide is turning ; the great 
rural questions are coming to the 
front.” Murmurs of satisfaction 
from the butter interest. Now 
is his chance. To-morrow it may 
be gone. We have warned him.” 
Sinker moved solemnly to the 
door. 

‘‘ Oh, gentlemen, I only meant 
we might talk over these matters at 
more leisure, in a friendly, informal 
way ” — (then to himself, ‘‘I'm in a 
devil of a mess. What does my 
uncle mean by letting these fools 
loose on me?”) — “in a friendly, 
informal way, were you to join me 
at dinner. ” (“I can't think of any- 

thing else to put things straight. 
I wish they weren’t temperance ; it 
would be easier then to down bad 
impressions.”) “At half-past five, 
may I expect you ? ” 


98 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


Mr. Sinker turned, with a bright- 
ening eye, and spoke for all. He 
was mollified by the prospect of the 
opportunities which a dinner table 
gives of continuous monologue. 

“You do us great honor. It 
will indeed be an interesting occa- 
sion. Charles,” turning to the boy, 
“on your way home — and I sup- 
pose you will be going shortly — 
perhaps you will inform Mrs. Sinker 
I am detained on business — and 
pleasure,” he added, with an insinu- 
ating smile, “with Mr. Ayres.” 

“But Mr. Charles of Newhills 
will join us, too ? ” said Stephen. 
The deputation looked curiously at 
the signs of recognition between 
them. “ Mr. Charles and I made 
acquaintance last night, while we 
were taking notes of the moral 
effects of the rustic merry-making.” 

The boy stammered now and 
was going off in confusion, but the 
other men, crowding about the door, 
prevented his speedy , retreat, and 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH. 99 


Stephen clapped him on the shoul- 
der, and whispered, ‘‘Won’t you 
c6me ? How is Arabella ? ” 

The boy turned scarlet, and 
frowned. 

“I say, she’s just capital as a 
partner. You’re luckier than you 
know. She’s as steady as you are 
harum-scarum, and that’s not say- 
ing little. Shake hands. You had 
a bad time last night, and I had a 
good one. It has been your turn 
this afternoon, and you’ve given it 
me badly. Aren’t we quits ? ” 

A gradual smile spread over the 
boy’s face. It was broad at last, 
and good-tempered. “ No, I won’t 
dine, but it’s all right. I’ll put 
something in Sinker’s glass o’ water, 
if you like.” Then he fled down- 
stairs six steps at a time, butting 
like a goat against the chest of the 
ascending Mr. Ayres, M. P. 

Stephen had gone to give orders 
and stimulate the hostess — no very 
easy task; but smiles and flattery 




100 . OUT OF BOUNDS. 

won the day. He had come back 
to pour maledictions on his own 
folly, and his uncle’s cool assump- 
tion that all the bores in Binstone 
might be handed over to him, when 
he spied that very gentleman giving 
orders to the waiter. 

‘‘ You here, Stephen ? Well, this 
is unexpected.” 

‘‘Now, uncle, I call that unkind, 
and I slaving for you all the after- 
noon. Well, they’re gone at last. 
Have you many like them ? I hope 
not. Give me easier ones next 
time.” 

“What do you mean ? Who are 
they ? Oh, have you any change ? 
I’ve driven from Dudstone, and the 
trap’s waiting. Thanks, I’ll take 
another. What were you speaking 
about ? ” 

“ The butter interest of Shelton, 
and the morality interest of Bin- 
stone and the universe.” 

“ Don’t know them.” 

“They’re the fellows you asked 


SERIOUS PERSONS TRIFLED WITH, lol 


me to take off your hands — the 
deputations, as they called them- 
selves.’* 

‘‘I never did. What’s all this 
about ? ” 


CHAPTER V. 


1[n vvblcb a tTririal ipereon IReceivee 
Scvioue Bttentioiu 

UT he got ^no answer. 
Stephen had thrown him- 
self into a chair by the 
window, and in his first glance at 
the street he spied a figure that 
had a familiar and fascinating look. 
Yes, yes! it was Maisie Hearn. 
He heeded not his uncle’s shout- 
ing; he forgot his guests. It was 
she, without any doubt; she was 
stopping — ringing a bell — now she 
had disappeared within a door. 

‘‘ Yes — a minute, uncle ! What 
were you saying ? Oh, the depu- 
tation, of course — very interesting 
deputation. You must stop the 
new Earndale railway on account 



102 



A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


103 


of the butter. And — there’s one 
of them now.” Stephen burst out 
of the room, dashed downstairs, 
and asked of everyone he knocked 
against if Newhills’ Charlie had 
been seen. 

The waiter didn’t know, the 
ostler didn’t know. The boots 
did : Charlie was, in fact, at that 
moment giving him an entertaining 
account of the deputation, and per- 
haps an edited one of last night’s 
events, as he sat on the com- 
mercial-room table, swinging his 
legs. 

‘‘Charlie,” said Stephen, “will 
you do me a favor ? Of course you 
will. Come here. Your wits have 
a longing to be quick. Let’s see 
if they are. I haven’t a moment 
to spare. Do you see that door 
beyond the post-office, a brown 
one, beside the linen-draper’s? 
Well, there’s a lady in there. She 
mustn’t leave Binstone without see- 
ing me. You understand ? They 


104 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


can't feed more than an hour; there 
isn't much in the inn. So you 
must catch her, and entertain her, 
keep her amused, and if you don’t 
have her ready to meet me when I 
come out — and not frightened, re- 
member — well. I’ll have something 
to say to Arabella, that's all." 

Charlie's face had darkened, 
lady! No, I don’t ! " 

‘‘Oh, yes, you do! There’s a 
good fellow! My sister Lucy was 
at school with her, and she hasn’t 
seen her for years, and her name’s 
Miss Hearn. Only don’t blazon 
it over the whole town, or mine 
either. Oh, you'll manage it ! I 
can trust you." 

And Stephen returned to his 
uncle. 

“What's all this about railways 
and butter ? " 

“ Oh, they're coming back ! I’ve 
asked them to dinner. Thought 
you would like me to." 

“Lucky! I haven’t arrived. I 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


105 


don’t come till the seven o’clock 
train. What sort of place is this ? 
Never been here before ; and The 
George is sold to the other lot. 
Think I’ll go over to Tempests’ 
after the meeting : they’ve invited 
me.” 

‘‘And you didn't ask me to look 
after your lambs ? Well ! ” 

“Never! Another mistake of 
that blockhead Smith, the secre- 
tary. Stephen, it 'll be a hard 
tussle this time. It was uncom- 
monly good of you to come down.” 

“ Not at all, not at all 1 But you 
can't get off that dinner. Oh, no! 
It's your dinner. Most important 
interests concerned. Butter and 
morality, no less. You can't have 
a beefsteak on the sly, and your 
constituents feeding under the 
same roof. Besides, I might 
pledge you to all kinds of things. 
I don't seem to understand Bin- 
stone politics rightly! ” 

“ Oh, but it's so unofficial. Who 


Io6 our OF BOUNDS. 

are they ? They may be nobodies. 
Smith gave me no warning. He 
might not approve.’' 

Smith is a blockhead, as you 
have just proved to me. And be- 
sides, I have an important engage- 
ment. I’ve ordered the thing, 
and selected the company; but 
under the circumstances it would 
be modest to retire.” 

^^But look here!” which was just 
what Stephen wouldn’t do, for his 
eyes were fixed on a brown door 
near the linen-draper’s, and he was 
praying for the lady to come out, 
so that Charlie’s services might not 
be needed. No sign from her; 
and his uncle and he squabbled till 
the arrival of the guests. 

The dinner was heavy and 
lengthy. The butter interest was 
subdued. Stephen, the elder, tried 
for some time to keep a lofty aloof- 
ness, as if he had no responsibility 
for the gathering; but the instinct 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


107 


of the candidate soon woke, and he 
beamed and exerted himself. Un- 
happily the dairy farmers, who had 
dined well at two, were not hungry. 
They were very thirsty, and looked 
happier each time their glasses 
were filled. Indeed, they would 
have seen all things in a reason- 
able light, would have interpreted 
their member’s mystic utterances 
in the most favorable spirit, had he 
been able to ply them with liquor. 
But Sinker and his allies watched 
suspiciously, did nothing for a time 
but watch and eat, for they were 
hungry. When their heads were in 
their trenchers he would furtively 
pass the claret, and wink at Ste- 
phen to do the same, but when 
their appetites were satisfied, 
Sinker commanded the whole table 
with his glance, and such passing 
and repassing of bottles was in 
direct defiance of his influence. 

Stephen meanwhile had his own 
troubles. The young farmer next 


I 08 OUT OF BOUNDS. 

him had heard Charlie’s version of 
last night’s frolic, and was of a ban- 
tering turn. He was under the 
impression that Charlie had done 
the young swell the friendly turn of 
conveying him home to sleep off 
the effect of his revels; and his 
banter being audible to another 
neighbor on the left, Stephen ex- 
plained in self-defense to both that 
he had been but a mere onlooker, 
whereupon the neighbor on the left 
nearly choked, and Stephen dis- 
covered him as one with whom he 
had danced and to whom he had 
fiddled the night before. The bit 
of innocent fun was all over the 
place; it would reach his uncle’s 
ears, spread through the family. 
Well, well! Maisie was below. Or 
what was that boy doing with her ? 
He must get out of this. 

Just then an altercation arose 
between the waiter and someone at 
the door. There was talking and 
shuffling, and the waiter, laden with 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


109 


dishes and hot with much serving, 
could only say, “ A messenger for 
Mr. Ayres.” The messenger, a 
boy, came forward, flustered and 
uncertain, and while Stephen was 
striving to hold elevated conversa- 
tion with his cynical neighbors, and 
pressing wine and ale and food on 
them, the elder Ayres, with the 
manner of calm authority that was 
part of him, held out his hand for 
the note. A dirty, crumpled note 
it was; but the note of a possible 
voter is never a thing to be dis- 
gusted at. He unfolded it slowly, 
looked at it with his short-sighted 
eyes, put on his gold pince-nez^ 
Sinker,' by his side, taking sly peeps 
the while. 

‘‘Who sent this ?” said Ayres. 

“ Jackson,” stammered the lad. 

“Ah, Mr. Jackson!” explained 
Sinker. “Chairman of the Local 
Board, and one' of your most ardent 
supporters. Can I help you, sir ? ” 

“Just see what it is, Sinker! 


no 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


My sight is bad, and Mr. Jackson's 
hand does not seem very legible." 

Sinker sat back in his chair, took 
the scrap of paper in his two hands, 
determined to read with his best 
elocution an important political 
document. 

Come at once. Can't keep the 
lady more. Have walkt her up 
and down the semmetary. Boots 
my frend give her some tea in W. 
Goose parler. She says she don't 
believe a word you say nor about 
your sister unless your produced at 
once. Stop old Sinker's jaw. He's 
a 'umbug, and your uncle. I told 
her about last night. Couldn't 
rember another storie. So long. 
She is very ingnant with me. 

‘‘C. Jackson." 

Mr. Ayres, M. P., listened open- 
mouthed. Extraordinary com- 
munication ! Who is — Mr. Jackson, 
did you say?" 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


Ill 


But Sinker was beyond speech. 
The veins in his forehead were 
starting forward, and he gasped 
and tore at the paper nervously. 

Do you think it’s meant for 
anyone here? ” said the member 
languidly. 

^‘It’s addressed to Mr. Ayres, 
and — and — I am mentioned in it/’ 
But who’s the lady ?” 

Stephen thought he heard a mur- 
mur of Arabella from his own 
immediate neighbors. Hot and 
flushed he stammered: ‘‘Had I 
better go and make inquiries about 
this curious epistle ? ” 

“Well, since there’s a lady in 
the case, who is waiting, perhaps 
you had. But I hope her business 
is not of so pressing a nature as to 
detain you,” said his uncle. There 
was coolness in his manner, and a 
pretense of treating the thing as a 
joke, but in his eye Stephen could 
read, “What tomfoolery have you 
been up to ? ” 


II2 


our OF BOUNDS. 


mistake of some kind — a 
mere mistake. Mr. Sinker, do you 
smoke? '' 

mistake of one of your 
nephew’s friends, I should think. 
No, thank you, I never smoke. 
Smoking is proved by the statistics 
to have a tendency to promote 
intemperate habits. Perhaps an 
acquaintance he made last night.” 

Ayres, Senior, knew nothing of 
last night, but he read criticism in 
Sinker’s voice. 

‘‘Pooh, pooh, Mr. Sinker! You 
don’t know him. Most likely a 
case of distress. He comes in con- 
tact with much of it, from the 
county districts, too. You see it 
follows him here even,” he went 
on sententiously. But the most 
unctuous explanations would not 
mollify Sinker, nor the best cigars 
still the heavy giggling of the 
younger members of the butter 
deputation, nor enliven the mysti- 
fied rustics on the left. It was to 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 1 13 

f 

an uneasy assembly Stephen re- 
turned. 

^‘Well said his uncle. 

‘‘It was not meant for you, but 
for me. It was written by a harum- 
scarum to whom I had given a 
commission, and whom, I need 
not say, Mr. Sinker, I have re- 
proved for his thoughtless words 
about certain members of the 
company.” 

“A case of distress?” said his 
uncle, hammering still on the inapt 
joke. 

“Distress?” said Stephen, with 
some surprise. “No! Well, that 
is, a good deal more so than I had 
thought. There is hope of its 
obtaining early relief, but it needs 
investigation on the spot, and I 
fear I must wish these gentlemen 
a good evening.” 

“Not going to speak to-night? 
Yes, yes I We want another man.” 
But Stephen read an undertone, 
that said, “Go to the devil, but 


OUT OP BOUNDS. 


II4 

don’t stay here getting me into 
ridiculous situations.” 

‘‘I fear it will be impossible.” 

“ Fulford case ? ” 

‘‘Fulford !” 

‘‘Ah, well, local claims! local 
claims, Mr. Sinker, you know. My 
nephew has been early inured to 
public sacrifices. I wasn’t so full 
of business at his age.” 

After his first exit Stephen had 
fled downstairs at a furious pace. 
Charlie was pacing up and down 
the hall, before a door. 

“ She’s in there. I wouldn’t stay 
with her any longer. She called 
me an impudent boy!” he said with 
a grin, and doubling himself up in 
his glee. “ She can’t get out. See, 
I’ve fastened the door with twine, 
and she won’t make a row for fear, 
for fear ” — here he drew himself up 
with dignity — “of compromising 
herself. She’s in an awful way.” 

“Oh, you fool! you rascal! 
Open the door, will you ? Get out 


A TRIVIAL PERSON, 


I15 

of the way ! Idiot I was to give 
you anything to do that wanted 
a head.” Stephen tore his hair. 
“Open, will you?” 

The lad undid the string sulkily. 
The door flew open, and disclosed 
Maisie Hearn, standing with her 
hands clasped tight, and the wrath 
of an unapproachable divinity on 
her face. She was by a window 
overlooking the garden, and from 
the sounds they had heard a minute 
or two before, she had perhaps 
been trying to get out that way. 

“Miss Hearn, I ask your pardon. 
There has been a great mistake. 

This ass of a boy here Believe 

me, I can explain. It is all a hide- 
ous mistake.” 

“At least the door is open now, 
and I can go away. I don’t know 
why I am here. I was told to 
come and see a friend. Very idly 
and very foolishly I came, and ever 
since I have been the sport of this 
silly boy. He spoke of Mr. Ayres, 


Il6 OUT OF BOUNDS. 

but I did not understand, and I did 
not expect to see you. And he 
spoke of your sister. I was easily 
deceived.’* 

‘‘Oh, if you would believe how 
sorry I am for my thoughtlessness! 
May I just walk a few yards with 
you, while I explain ? You cannot 
go till I do,” and he followed, 
launching shots at Charlie, who 
still loitered. “You young fool! 
you fool! It is time Arabella took 
you in hand.” 

Charlie broke away, and waited 
for the dispersal of the diners 
upstairs. But, as if in reparation 
of the ill he had done, he pointed 
to a side-entrance that led through 
the court and into a side street. 
The suggestion had been waved 
aside, but on second thoughts 
Stephen accepted it, and Maisie 
followed, willing enough not to 
be under the public gaze falling 
on the front entrance. She did 
not speak, and walked as if she 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


II7 

had no connection with him, while 
Stephen opened and shut his hands 
in despair, unable to articulate a 
word. One end of the lane ran 
into the High Street; the other into 
fields and woods. He made a turn 
to the country side, then stopped, 
and found his voice. 

‘‘I throw myself on your mercy. 
The fact is, I’m not to be trusted 
alone. I have done nothing but 
play the fool for the last four-and- 
twenty hours. But I am cool- 
headed now.” 

Maisie’s eyes began to throw out 
a smile. 

“I came into the country, and 
the air got into my head, and Just 
when I was enjoying myself, my 
uncle and a lot of local politicians 
got hold of me. Miss Hearn, were 
you ever sick of your uncle and of 
local politicians ? And I got into 
a mess, and then I spied you, and 
between keeping up my reputation 
and offending the politicians, and 


Il8 OUT OF BOUNDS, 

the dullness of it all, I was wild. 
Do you understand ? I never felt 
it before. You did the rest. You 
crossed the square. A door was 
shut behind you, and the politicians 
were swallowing me up. You were 
like the scent of the woods to a 
cage-bird. I gave a foolish mes- 
sage to a hobbledehoy, and you 
know the rest. He annoyed you 
and insulted you, and it’s all my 
blame.” 

‘‘An old schoolfellow named 
Ayres,” she said. “I thought of 
Lucy, though it seemed absurd. 
But he was pressing, and I went, 
because I had nothing better to do. 
First he took me into the grave- 
yard. I told him to go away, but 
he read the epitaphs aloud, and sat 
on a tomb and looked at me, till I 
thought he was an idiot. Then he 
said we had better go to the hotel; 
my old schoolfellow was dining 
with her uncle the member, and 
they would have finished by now. 


A TRIVIAL PERSON, 


II9 

I sat in a parlor and Lucy never 
appeared, and the boy came in and 
out, and told me I wasn’t to ring, 
because her uncle the member 
didn’t know about her visitor, which 
was the likeliest of all his stories. 
I threatened, and then he fastened 
the door. In another minute I 
should have been out of the 
window.” 

Stephen was nearly dancing with 
vexation. ‘‘It’s no good blaming 
the fool. It was my selfishness. 
I grasped at the thought of a talk 
with you.” Maisie stared: their 
intercourse had not been extensive. 
“ Forgive me ! ” 

Maisie smiled in his face. “You 
were dull ? I’ve often thought 
you must be, but it’s amusing to 
hear an important person like you 
owning up. Well, I was dull, too. 
My pupils are away for two days. 
Mrs. Tempest proposed some nee- 
dlework, but I declined. I’ve not 
had a holiday for months. I walked 


120 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


here to see my aunt — my father’s 
sister — the wife of the linen- 
draper,” she said, a little defiantly. 
‘‘But I didn’t stay long.” 

“ And so you were going back to 
needlework ? ” 

Maisie laughed. “ No, I wasn’t.” 

“ Do you know I have ruined 
my reputation up there ? ” point- 
ing to the inn. “ Mayn’t I have 
compensation ? We are both tru- 
ants. Let’s do something.” 

“Yes, let’s!” burst out Maisie 
impulsively. “ Let’s go to the 
meeting and laugh.” 

“No; let’s keep away from that 
lot. I have a plan. They’re play- 
ing a tragedy at the old Town 
Hall. Let’s go and laugh. I’d 
like to laugh for a week.” 

Maisie consented and demurred 
all at once, and looked at her com- 
panion inquiringly. He returned 
the look with a strong appeal. 
The sun lit up her bright face and 
her dark-brown curls, and sparkled 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


I2I 


in her spirited eyes. Stephen gazed 
at her with admiration, and with 
another feeling, too, not unlike the 
one Arabella had inspired him with 
— sympathy for a soul starved of 
its due joy. He paid little atten- 
tion to the shabby frock and hat, 
and all the marks of straits and 
poverty that might have struck a 
woman; but he read the meaning 
of her face — the face of one that 
could endure in plenty, but that 
would not be satisfied without 
much of the brightness of life. 
Then he suddenly felt his pity 
was all wrong. She had the gifts 
of beauty and joy in herself : he 
wished to share them. He did 
not read what was passing in her 
mind, but her desires, at least, 
were all on his side. She was dull, 
and tired, and disappointed. She 
wanted to break the bonds that 
tied her wings, if only for an hour 
or two. And here stood a beauti- 
ful admirer — Maisie knew he was 


122 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


that. He belonged to the sect 
that scouted her and made use of 
her, and passed her by, according 
to their convenience. These who 
had the keys to the joys of life 
made such stupid use of them; she 
would do better if only her turn 
came. Maisie was not afraid of 
herself. She was proud, and over 
the top of her nature circumstances 
had crusted some bitterness. But 
the impulsive, childish longing to 
have a good time was there, too, 
and no less strong a mischievous 
delight that Stephen Ayres, the 
hope of prosperous, respectable 
Ruddington, was behaving badly. 

‘‘It will be all right,” Stephen 
said, guessing slowly her bias to 
consent. “Look, there is a lovely 
seat over by those trees. We have 
plenty of time. I’ll fetch some- 
thing meanwhile;” and before 
Maisie could answer he was gone. 

She might have walked away, — 
gone back to her quiet needlework, 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


123 


— but she did not. Wonderment, 
mischief, and expectation filled her 
as she walked by the path to the 
little fir plantation. 

Meantime, Stephen went back to 
the High Street and reconnoitered 
cautiously. He was on a foraging 
expedition, and made darts for his 
prey. At the pastrycook’s door 
he spied the rural deputation, de- 
moralized by their afternoon, argu- 
ing noisily among their heifers in 
the market place, and he beat a 
retreat. Crossing the road, laden 
with packages for the relief of his 
case of distress, he would have run 
into the arms of his uncle, issuing 
from The Wild Goose, had not 
Charlie created a diversion by col- 
liding with the member and proffer- 
ing lengthy apologies. The member 
frowned, looked the collider up and 
down sternly; Mr. Sinker, still in 
the great man’s company, till the 
local committee should reduce him 
to obscurity, reproved the boy’s 


124 


OUT OF BOJUNDS. 


manners, and Stephen successfully 
smuggled himself into the inn, 
through a private bar. In the lane 
Charlie met him, and looked in his 
face to see if it had grown friendly. 

^‘That was good. I see you 
want to make up. But, Charlie, 
you’re an awful young dog. It 
won’t do. Time to settle, time to 
settle, you know! Eh? It’s Bin- 
stone air, I suppose. See here, 
now.” The boy looked shyly at 
the gold piece, but hung back. 
‘‘That’s to buy something for Ara- 
bella. You must. It’s not for The 
Wild Goose or The Stump and 
Wickets. Keep your head steady, 
and, if you do, look me up. There, 
that’s my address. You must ask 
me to dance — with Arabella — at 
your wedding. ” Stephen flourished 
one of his packets, and was gone. 

The relation of his adventures 
thawed what frost remained. 
Then he picked strawberries for 
Maisie, and spread cakes for her on 


A TRIVIAL PERSON-. 


125 


dock-leaves, and declared there was 
nothing like a dinner at five o'clock 
with village politicians for giving 
you an appetite at half-past six — in 
better company. 

How they went to the old Hall, 
and sat in the empty front benches, 
and saw more than was intended— 
the dying heroine drinking porter 
behind the scenes, for instance; 
how at the tragic passages they dis- 
solved in laughter, and how they 
drew reproachful looks from the 
actors, but recovered in time to 
give the heartiest applause of all; 
how they were played to, in conse- 
quence, during the next acts, and 
how Stephen grew maudlin over the 
death of the child, need not be 
told. A tenth of his imbecile ex- 
citement had been enough to prove 
that he was no more fit to sit on a 
board of directors, or preside over 
a sanitation committee, than an in- 
fant in arms. 

Maisie would have bidden hini 


126 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


good-by at the end, but he per- 
sisted otherwise. The quiet of the 
night sobered him, but only from 
the melodramatic to the more 
seriously sentimental mood. The 
keen air perhaps set Maisie think- 
ing of the consequences of her 
escapade. She had her own way of 
keeping herself at a distance from 
Stephen. They were talking of the 
desperate makeshifts of the stage, 
the rags of finery, the grimaces, 
the geegaws, and the silliness. 

“ Yet I don’t know why I laugh,” 
broke out Maisie. ‘‘It was my 
mother’s life. She went through it 
all. Perhaps she has been Ophelia 
in this very Binstone. She was ill in 
lodgings in Fulford, and was going 
to be turned out by her landlady 
because she was penniless and the 
company had moved on. My father 
lived in the same house, heard of 
the matter, and paid her bill, though 
he had never seen her. Afterward 
he married her. She didn’t live 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


127 


very long after I was born. My 
father hated the stage, hates it 
still; but I’d rather be starving 
with that wandering troop than 
slaving to teach little urchins how 
to strum on a piano and speak bad 
French.” 

Stephen showed so much in- 
terest, and with such gentle dis- 
cretion, too, that Maisie saw her 
revelation had not produced the 
desired effect. She had more 
weapons. 

‘‘ It isn’t that, though, I believe, 
that makes me get on so slowly 
and be avoided.” 

‘‘ Avoided ? ” 

‘‘Oh, you understand! It has 
always been hard for me to get 
work. People take me on suf- 
ferance.” 

“ The Tempests now ” 

“Oh! with the children it’s all 
right. I get on with children. 
But the elders suspect me. You 
know quite well Ruddington folks 


128 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


would never forgive you if they 
knew you talked to the Hearn 
girl as you have been doing.'* 

‘‘Oh! " 

“ It's true, and you know it, and 
perhaps they’re right. I don't 
think it’s on account of my mother 
— they never could have heard 
much of her — nor because of my 
father’s opinions. It is — I had 
better tell you, if you don’t know. 
I scrambled up somehow, and I left 
school early. Then I had to earn 
something, but I was ignorant, and 
the teaching I could get brought 
nothing in. I wanted to go on the 
stage, and my father wouldn’t let 
me. So I ran away to Manchester, 
and got a theatrical engagement — 
oh, nothing at all — serving-maid 
business. I was too frightened to 
be successful, but the life suited 
me well enough. Then father was 
miserable, and I wasn't earning 
much; I had only far-off prospects. 
So I came back, and I could get 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


129 


nothing to do till old Miss Lloyd 
took me up, and afterward Miss 
Sibyl. But oh! they disapproved 
of me. Then father made real sac- 
rifices for me; I studied, and since 
then I've been guiding the precious 
little ones of such highly respect- 
able houses! And the fathers and 
mothers are always looking for the 
seed of evil in their offspring, and 
putting it down to my planting. 
Yet I'd go back to the stage any 
day. I'd run off with these stroll- 
ers we saw to-night with joy. But 
my father has so few prejudices 
that one feels bound to respect 
them." 

Stephen said little, but his look 
and tone were so quietly sympathetic 
that Maisie felt again she had 
missed fire. She had put into the 
hands of a Ruddington grandee 
two weapons to protect himself 
against her wiles, and he would use 
none. Now she feared, too, she 
had been whining. 


130 OUT OF BOUNDS. 

Dull ? she said, in response to 
his pity for her. ‘‘No. I have 
gone about with my father. I 
have seen things other girls don't. 
And, bless me! one has a better 
time living on the verge of a life 
like that of the Tempests than in- 
side it. They are amusing, from 
the outside. Would you believe it, 
the other day I heard Mrs. Tem- 
pest and her sister gravely discuss- 
ing for two hours the ethics of 
servants’ uniform ? And they have 
puckers on their foreheads while 
they wonder whether an entree was 
perfectly successful. Ah! I assure 
you, they are serious-minded. If I 
were housekeeper for a week, I’d 
give them no dinner for two days 
out of it. They’d die, not of in- 
anition, but of surprise and shock. 
They’ve all been to school and talk 
French, and have packets of books 
from Mudie’s, and they solemnly 
argue about things lower folks 
settled three centuries ago. They 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


I3I 

join societies for reading, and Miss 
Ethel, and Miss Emily, and Mr. 
Arthur, and Mr. Jones drink tea, 
eat cake, and read Shelley, and 
Browning, and Shakspere. They 
couldn’t read them alone, or with- 
out tea and cake. They have no 
time, of course. They are an hour 
over dinner on the most private 
night, and they read all the adver- 
tisements of the Queeuy and have a 
large correspondence with shop- 
keepers, and work for bazaars, as 
if their children’s living depended 
on it. We had an intellectual 
visitor the other day. She thought 
the conversation frivolous, and led 
it into other paths. I didn’t follow. 
I fell asleep. When I woke she 
was informing them how many 
times the word ‘‘that” is misused 
in a certain chapter of Matthew 
Arno^ld. You should have seen 
them listening. They knew noth- 
ing about it, but they said it was 
“so interesting.” After dinner 


132 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


they sent down to your uncle, at 
the Rectory, for the book in ques- 
tion, and they actually counted the 
offending thats. When 1 laughed 
about it next day, Mrs. Tempest 
said she was so sorry I made so 
little of the opportunities for self- 
improvement that came in my way. 
Well, you see, IVe had better from 
old John Finnes, the cobbler, my 
father’s friend. Ah! they’re kind 
enough, and very amiable; but I’d 
like to make the ladies smoke a big 
cheroot, and swear a little — just for 
once. Of course, I should like 
them to repent — but they’d be 
better for the fall. Only their 
blood is not thick enough. Now, 
Mr. Ayres, you see I am bad and 
ungrateful. And they are your 
friends, these good people. Well, 
I have not laughed at them in 
order to hurt your feelings, but to 
show you how abandoned is my 
character.” 

Maisie was using her reckless 


A TRIVIAL PERSON, 


133 


tongue as chaperon; but Stephen 
the while was reflecting how little 
opportunity Ruddington had given 
him for studying his neighbors, and 
how in Pindleton he had been 
always looking on people for a pur- 
pose, for a reform, an agitation, a 
charity. Mercy on us ! what would 
his sisters think if they knew 
Maisie Hearn pitied them ? 

“Well, Miss Hearn, I think all 
this so improper that I am em- 
boldened to make my own con- 
fession. You say we are dull.’* 

“I meant your women. You 
have your business — too much of 
it; but it keeps your brains from 
growing flabby.” 

“No, we’re dull. Oh, I have 
been ! Perhaps because I had a 
dinner every day — I don’t know. 
Well, I fled away from it, and I 
have been so badly brought up that 
this is what has happened.” And 
he told her his adventures of the 
last four-and-twenty hours. 


134 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


And Maisie laughed and Stephen 
laughed, and Maisie said she was 
glad he was worse than he looked, 
and laughed again, and then forgot 
all her bitterness and her raillery, 
and only remembered they were 
both young, that the night was free 
and sweet-smelling, and the turf by 
the roadside light to tread, and 
that the stars smiled brightly out 
of the sky. 

The Tempests had old Haydons 
Hall. Stephen knew it well enough 
by daylight. As he walked up the 
long lime avenue with Maisie, she 
said, “ Thank you for giving me the 
pleasure of the play, and for walk- 
ing home with me. Mrs. Tempest, 
I’m sure, would say I should not 
have accepted either. Perhaps I 
say so myself. I couldn’t help it at 
the time, and I’ve enjoyed my holi- 
day. But go back now to Fulford, 
Mr. Ayres, and don’t dance with Ara- 
bellas any more. You are like Roy- 
alty: you may not do what you like.” 


A TRIVIAL PERSON. 


135 


“ And you forgive me? ” 

‘‘Oh, it was a joke! and I always 
forgive a joke I can laugh at. 
Good-night ! Don’t come farther. 
I’ll have to make my peace with 
Mrs. Tempest in the morning for 
coming in so late.” 

“Will she be disagreeable?” 
“No, I’ll manage,” said Maisie 
independently. He guessed a smile 
through the darkness, and then she 
was gone. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Hn wblcb Original Sin ©rovee 
Stronger than tbc ^oat Careful 
Bbucatlon* 


Hall 
a boy. 


TEPHEN trusted over 
much to his old knowledge 
of the grounds of Haydons 
where he had often lived as 
He recalled a short cut 
through the woods. Beyond that 
little gate by the chestnuts it should 
lie — a path that wound along the 
bank of a little stream. What a 
divine night ! Stephen bared his 
head, leaned up against a tree, 
watched the gentle swaying above 
him, and the white light of the 
stars. ‘‘Fresh, fresh!** like a 

voice he had just been listening to ! 
How could one breathe within four 
walls? Oh, to wander a starry 

136 



ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. 137 


night through with What was 

he saying? What was he saying? 
Now he should turn to the left a 
little, not too much, or he would 
strike on the kennels. The pines 
sang ; a wakeful wood-pigeon mut- 
tered and gurgled ; and the trickle- 
trickle of the water over the pebbles 
sounded in his ears ; but not one 
of these had a word of guidance. 
They all bade him be still ; and he 
lUy down in the pine-needles wit,h 
his hands under his head, and saw 
that the stars were flowers, hanging 
on slender stalks ; and he would 
have liked to pluck one to deck 
Maisie’s hair, because it would 
match her eyes. Decidedly he 
should not stay here. What was 
the good of a short cut if you 
loitered on the way ? Over a little 
more to the left. Oh, confound 
those dogs ! What a racket ! And 
what was that ? Again and again 
he was tripped up by scattered 
boxes. He had fallen on the ground 


138 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


where the Tempests bred their 
chickens, surely. There maybe 
keepers about. Now for a bolt 
across that field, to the wall at the 
end. Who's that ? Oh, just my 
luck ! A keeper ! ” Stephen in the 
open, and under the clear starlight, 
was conspicuous enough. In a fatal 
moment he dodged aside and en- 
tered a clump of pine and bracken, 
but before he could make up his 
mind whether or not the man had* 
passed on, a hand was on his 
shoulder, and a stick, whirlingabove 
his head, knocked his hat off. 

‘‘A got ye, lad. A’ve been look- 
ing for ye. Ah ! a’ve got ye. 
Come along.” 

‘^Will you let me go?” roared 
Stephen. ‘‘What do you take me 
for ?” 

“Only for some ’un as ’as a 
pretty taste in chickens. Ye’ve 
had yer turn, and near lost me my 
place. It’s mine now. Come, will 
ye?” 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. 139 


My good man ! You mistake. 
I am not whom you take me for.” 
Stephen tried to laugh, but his ap- 
prenticeship in vagabondage was 
too short, and not all adventures 
were of the complexion he liked. 
The lusty ruffian’s grasp was dis- 
tasteful. His throat was clutched 
so tight by the wrenched collar that 
it was not easy either to laugh or 
speak. Come, come, fellow, let 
go. You’re making a big mistake. 
I’m a friend of Mr. Tempest.” 

‘‘Oh, are ye ! Will ye come an* 
see ’m ? ’E’ll be ’appy, a’m sure.” 

“Well, no, I’d rather not. It’s 
not a seasonable hour.” Stephen 
thought of a possible meeting with 
his uncle, who might already have 
carried out his intention. Better 
a tussle with this rough guardian, 
“It may get you into serious 
trouble, you know, unless you let 
me free, my fine fellow. Take that 
little wretch out of the way.” A 
dog was grabbing his trousers. “ I 


140 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


tell you I am ” Then he 

stopped. His family dignity 
stopped him. ‘‘ I’m from Fulford.’* 

So was the last we cotched. 
Fulford swells ! They’re smart at 
the business. Come on. I’ve a 
lodgin’ for ye. I was just in time,” 
he added to himself, in a tone of 
satisfaction. 

Tut, tut! Nonsense! Enough, 
now! Let me go! You see I’ve 
nothing on me.” 

A see nothing o’ the kind.” 

‘‘ If you want a tip as proof of my 
respectability — here.” The man, 
Stephen felt, abetted his wresting 
free his right arm. ‘‘Drat it! Hang 
my uncle who purloined my spare 
cash! ” 

“T’other way about ginerally,” 
laughed the man, “aint it? He, 
he ! An’ so yer uncle left ye nothin’ 
less than a ten-poun’ note. Well, 
well ! Don’t disturb yerself.” 

“Oh, can’t you see it’s all 
a mistake? Come to The Wild 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. 14I 


Goose at Binstone to-morrow for 
your tip — or ask Mr. Tempest for 
it. I’ll refund him. And take that 
dog off, or I’ll kill him.” 

^‘Gr-r-r ” said the dog, and 

Stephen said worse. 

‘‘ No, she doan’t come off yet. 
There, now she do. In ye go till 
the mornin’, when Maister Tem- 
pest ’ll be pleased to see’s friends. 
He’s oop an’ about early.” And as 
if he had been a broken twig Stephen 
felt himself dragged across a sandy 
road and thrown in at a dark door, 
and lowered, not ungently, to the 
damp earth. Resist as he might, 
the door was slammed and locked, 
and the man’s heavy tread was 
sounding fainter on the path before 
he had recovered from his surprise. 
Whatever the place was, it had a 
stifling, dank air, and no light any- 
where. I The floor was wet, and at 
every movement he struck against 
unknown objects. Fuming and 
desperate, Stephen lit match after 


142 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


match, and finally discovered him- 
self to be in a hut with dull gray 
walls, against which were packed 
firewood, old wheelbarrows, hen- 
coops, woodcraft tools, traps, sacks, 
a ladder, and a drain-pipe. To the 
left of the door, through some 
boards and boxes, he thought he 
spied a faint glimmer. Some of 
the obstructions he moved; others 
fell on him; the rest he wrenched 
and tugged at for fully five minutes, 
till they gave way too, letting the 
cool air in through the window- 
hole with a rush. That was some- 
thing at last. Stephen laughed 
now, and leaned up against the wall, 
worn out. “ Oh, I'd much better 
have gone home ! " he gasped. I’m 
not fit to be trusted. I’ve lived too 
orderly; and the slightest step off 
the beaten track leads me into mis- 
chief. How that ruffian gripped 
me! Put money in thy purse, 
Stephen, when thou goest on 
adventures. What a disreputable 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. 143 


thing it is to be without money! 
I’ve always heard so. Now I know 
it. I’m glad I didn’t insist on 
going before my old friend Tempest. 
It might have been awkward; for 
Maisie, at least. And ten to one 
my uncle’s there, and he couldn’t 
bear much more. No, this is better, 
though mighty damp. ’Twill do, 
though, till that ruffian’s sleeping 
in bed. I wonder the crash didn’t 
bring him back. Not much of a 
lock-up for chicken-thieves, I think; 
I must tell Tempest I think noth- 
ing of it.” He hoisted himself to 
the narrow window-sill, and put his 
legs through. 

‘‘It’s fated I’m not to sleep on a 
bed. Can’t go back to Binstone 
now without a hat. ’Twas over 
there the ruffian knocked it off. 
Hope he’s not picked it up and 
gpne to show it to Tempest. 
Tempest would be harder than 
ever on chicken-thieves when he 
saw what good hats they wear; 


144 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


and at present I'm on the side of 
the thieves. Well, I can't find it 
in the dark, but I’ll have a good 
night, all the same. These sacks, 
if they smell clean, will be my 
pillow, and I'll have the pines, not 
these dirty walls, for my curtain.” 
Scrambling into the hut again, and 
groping, he found the bundle of 
sacks, pitched them out of the win- 
dow, and squeezed himself after 
them. Then he stretched his legs* 
and shook himself. The wall 
formed a shelter on one side, the 
pines on another, and Stephen lay 
down with his face turned to the 
open sky. The Great Bear's 
pointers guided his face backward 
to the little bright pole star, which 
stood just over Haydons Hall. A 
vagabond had need have some fixed 
point to travel back to. 

Instead of sleeping he made 
reflections like these : Maisie, 

you're defiant, and you hate us all. 
I’m glad you do. I wouldn't have 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. 145 


you love our slow, overfed life, 
but I would like — how I would 
like — to see you in sunshine, 
Maisie. You were made to be a 
spoiled child, and the world’s your 
scolding stepmother, whom you 
love a little, all the same. Maisie, 
you’ll run away from lesson-books 
some day, or your heart will die, 
and your eyes that gleam now 
would stab then. Good dreams, 
Maisie ! ” And he fell asleep. 

Now it was to his credit; at least 
it was satisfactory that in the 
highly reprehensible situation in 
which this young councilor of 
Fulford, this director of safe public 
companies, this model for all young 
citizens, found himself — it was 
satisfactory, I say, that not a 
thought of Miss Sibyl Lloyd had 
passed through his mind, only 
dreams of that abandoned little 
vagabond, Maisie Hearn. Could 
he have paid Sibyl more respect ? 

On going to his woodland bed he 


146 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


had forgotten to wind up his watch, 
and when he woke the sun was high 
enough to make him a little nerv- 
ous. Jumping up, he looked round 
him and reconnoitered. His prison 
of the night was like a little peaked 
hermitage : it might have been a 
lodge in its day, but if so, the park 
had grown and left it behind. He 
began his search for his hat, poking 
among bracken and long grass, 
shaking many a fairy hammock the 
while, and finding it at last wet 
with dew, and a little battered by 
the fall. In another instant he was 
over the wall ; none too soon, for 
hardly had he, dropped on the road 
when steps were heard along the 
sandy path near the hut. Stephen 
jumped across a fence, and was 
safe in the meadows below, where 
the stream, now wider, wound 
about among high bushy banks. 
The stream must lead to Binstone, 
and it would be a good leisurely 
companion on the way. Morning 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. 147 


light is sobering, one hears. But 
to-day it was not. The dawn had 
left rousing dashes of scarlet be- 
hind. The river chattered, and 
every gorsebush was alive with 
singing. The grass and the flowers 
and the corn and the birds had all 
a look of surprise when he passed, 
as if not used to be taken unawares 
by strangers at such an hour. All 
was so still under the singing that 
he walked shyly; yet all so alive and 
vibrating that he felt the turning of 
the world and the coursing of his 
own blood as one. Such mornings 
make poor mortals very silly some- 
times, and willing to pay any price 
for that glory of expectation which 
they breathe. Over the meadows, 
in the most perverse and wrong- 
headed direction went the stream, 
Stephen after it. Finding at last 
a wide pool, he made his toilet. 
The joy of splashing and sunning 
his limbs took him back behind all 
the years of life he could remember. 


148 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


till he knew not whether he was a 
baby in a sparkling sea or a wild 
man, ages ago, before his modern 
birth. He was as a young god, and 
the wind and the sun waited on and 
ministered unto him. 

Spying some red roofs over a hill, 
his appetite clamored. Away from 
the stream, up the hill he sped, rat- 
tling the few coppers which his 
pockets contained, and which he 
had been ashamed to offer to his 
captor of last night. They should 
buy him something; else he must 
die out of the best of all conceivable 
worlds. Oh, how that winding road 
took time ! He fought with it : it 
grew steeper, and his hunger ever 
fiercer, till before the frightened 
woman of an outlying cottage he 
laid down three copper coins, and 
demanded breakfast with the air of 
a highwayman. As his manners 
left her speechless, he changed 
them, simulating the effects of great 
exhaustion. Dropping into a chair 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG, 149 


by the door, he invoked blessings 
on her head if he might buy a 
mouthful with the last pence a hard 
fate had left him. Walked all day 
and took nothing,*’ he said in pro- 
fessional tones. ‘‘Haven’t had 
where to lay my head. Good 

woman, may you never know ” 

The woman, who had been scan- 
ning him narrowly, moved away 
from the end of the familiar bless- 
ing. Her man was not about, and 
this tramp, or larking young gentle- 
man, would not be easily dislodged 
from her chair. So she produced 
some black tea and some bread and 
lard, and Stephen disliking both, 
and making grimaces while swallow- 
ing, yet ate and drank with the 
conviction that life was full of wild 
desires and magnificent satisfaction, 
and that he must strengthen him- 
self to be up and ready for more. 
The good, doubtful woman, think- 
ing it best to be on the safe side, 
which she took to be charity, 


150 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


pushed the coins away ; and 
Stephen threw them into her baby’s 
lap, said ‘‘ Good' morning,” cheerily 
asked her name, plucked a button- 
hole from her garden, and promised 
himself she should never regret 
having refreshed a starving vaga- 
bond. Then sleep stole up to 
him, and into his head, and led his 
footsteps into the little churchyard, 
and there, at the back of a tomb- 
stone, he lay down and slept for 
hours. 

Reaching Binstone about noon, 
he interviewed The Wild Goose 
head-waiter as privately as possible. 
His uncle was gone, had spent 
the night there, had meetings this 
evening. There were letters for 
Stephen. Stephen washed, and 
brushed, and breakfasted at unnec- 
essary length to defer attention to 
these. 

Two letters and a telegram, all 
opened. Stephen spread them out. 
A letter from his sister, one in an 


ORIGINAL SIN PROVES STRONG. I51 


unknown hand, readdressed from 
Fulford, and bearing Urgent oxi the 
cover. So they had guessed him at 
Binstone — in his uncle’s company. 
And his uncle, who had the first 
right to the name of “ S. Ayres,” 
had opened them. Now they were 
impo-rtant, argued Stephen, or un- 
important. If unimportant, they 
could wait. Why put himself out 
of tune with his present thoughts 
and surroundings ? If important, 
then, of course, they had much 
better wait. He refused to be 
called back at this moment. He 
might have gone to Norway or to 
John o’ Groats. It was a mere 
chance they had found him, and 
he was not going to be the loser 
by mere chance. Certainly they 
should wait, and they were thrust, 
with a coolness which a rapid de- 
moralization rendered easy, into 
his innermost pocket. 

It was Maisie’s last holiday. 
Her pupils would be back, and he 


152 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


felt he had hardly enough explained 
his conduct of yesterday. He must 
know, too, how she had fared, and 
she would be amused by his further 
escapade. There was no question 
of the propriety of his proposed 
course of action. 


CHAPTER VII. 
IROD0 for a SooVe 


O along the Haydons road 
he walked once more, the 
country smiling familiarly 
as if it had known him ever^ 
day for ages. In the avenue he 
peered about for his rough foe of 
last night; but clothed with the 
air of an afternoon visit, there 
would only have been recognition 
on one side. 

^‘Miss Hearn at home? That 
is, Mrs. Tempest.” 

^‘Mrs. Tempest is out, sir,” 
said the man; Miss Hearn is in, 
or I think so. Step this way. 
Name, sir? Mr. Ayres? Why, 
Mrs. Tempest was expecting you 
a little later.” 



153 


154 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


‘‘Expecting me?’* thought^ Ste- 
phen. “ Has Maisie blabbed, and am 
I expected to come and confess?” 

“I think, sir, you mentioned 
Miss Hearn ? ” inquired the man 
again, with just a little surprise. 

“Yes, tell her I’ve come on im- 
portant business.” 

In a minute or two Maisie stood 
before him, a little pale and a little 
frightened, and with even some 
annoyance on her face. 

“Ah ! I wished to know if by 
taking you away last night I did 
anything to get you into trouble.” 

“But, if so, coming to see would 
only make things worse.” 

“No. I might put them to 
rights,” he returned, with h\s grand- 
seigneur air; adding more humbly, 
“Unless I am very clumsy.” 

“Well, if you really wish to 
know,” said Maisie, her frank smile 
coming back, “I’m in disgrace. 
They’re not angry; they’re grieved. 
They know I wasn’t at my aunt’s 


RODS FOR A FOOL'S BACK. 155 


all the time; I didn’t tell the rest, 
and they won’t ask. They say I’m 
going back to ‘wild ways,’ and 
they’ve been giving me good ad- 
vice about self-improvement all the 
morning. I was very cross. To 
make things worse, my father is 
expected. He has meetings all 
round just now, and I had told 
them the other day that he might 
look me up. So in a fit of ami- 
ability they made me write and ask 
him to tea. Now they feel bound 
to see him, and yet they’re so nerv- 
ous, and fear he may meet your 
uncle and the other guests who are 
coming this afternoon.” 

“Whew! So I’ve been taken 
again for my uncle. By Jove ! 
Have I to meet him ? Let’s run 
off somewhere.” 

“Look here,” said Maisie; and 
without heeding his suggestion, she 
drew from the pocket of her apron a 
huge cambric pocket-handkerchief 
and a little silver match-box. 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


156 

‘‘Who is the owner of these 
pretty things?” 

“Great Why? You know 

then ? Who found them ? ” 

Maisie laughed a ringing laugh. 

“There was such a to-do at 
breakfast. Mr. Tempest said he 
had heard of some chicken-stealing 
from Lot ; and Mrs. Tempest said 
it must be put down. So Lot, a 
great, hulking fool that his master 
is fond of, was interviewed. He 
told him how he had locked up his 
man — light-fingered and desperate, 
a regular professional — in the old 
lodge ; how he had gone back at 
dawn, after sending Tom for the 
constable, and found him fled. 
But the professional chicken-stealer 
had left these behind. I recog- 
nized the match-box, because I had 
seen you playing with it, and I 
tried to get hold of both, in case 
your initials were there. But they 
wouldn’t hand them to me. Of 
course, ‘ S. A.’ was cut out on the 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 157 


silver. That might have passed ; 
but the handkerchief had ^ S. Ayres ’ 
on it. And oh ! the stories I’ve in- 
vented ! The best one — they quite 
believe it now — is that there were 
London pickpockets in the train 
of Mr. Stephen Ayres, M. P., and 
at the meeting last night they 
picked what they could. Then 
they came on here because Haydons 
chickens are so highly prized in 
Whitechapel. But I must put these 
back in the morning room, or 
they’ll be missed. They will be 
presented — with all the accompany- 
ing stories and theories — to your 
uncle to-night.” 

‘‘No, give them to me. London 
pickpockets are so artful and dar- 
ing. This one actually came back 
and repurloined his booty out of 
the morning room of Haydons 
Hall.” 

“ Better leave them. Mrs. Tem- 
pest is fussy, and she is depending 
on these to make conversation out 


158 


our OF BOUNDS, 


of with your uncle. I daren’t let 
you keep them.” 

Stephen gave them up with a 
groan. 

‘‘Ah, my uncle is suffering 
through me ! ” Then he told his 
experiences of the night. 

“You had better have explained 
at once. But you kept quiet for 
me, perhaps. Yet if you come 
here, and ask for me — well, they 
must wonder. Mr. Ayres, I talked 
a great deal of nonsense last night, 
and bragged about my imprudence. 
But I can’t afford to be very im- 
prudent.” 

“ I swear you shall not suffer for 
anything I have done. Now, will 
you take me for a walk ? You 
have duties of hospitality in 
absence of my hostess.” 

“I have things to do.” 

“ This is a quiet time for needle- 
work, I suppose.” 

“And I am expecting my 
father.” 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK, 159 

I shall not keep you long. 
Ah, Miss Hearn! I want you to 
look at my last night’s cell. You 
will ?” 

‘^Come, then,” said Maisie. 
Why should she miss life’s good 
companionship ? She trusted her- 
self too much to refuse. And in 
a little garden-hat, trimmed with 
fresh-washed muslin and faded 
roses, she looked prettier than ever. 
Through the plantation and along 
by the stream they went, till they 
reached the old lodge, to laugh and 
play the scene over again ; then 
by the path Stephen had wandered 
from last night to a little gate in 
the wall. Outside there were wild 
roses growing by the fence that 
bounded the cornfields, and Ste- 
phen gathered the best and Maisie 
stuck them into her belt, and would 
have more to take to Mrs. Tempest 
for a peace offering. Then Ste- 
phen told her of his fishing in the 
stream when he was a boy ; and 


t6o out of bounds. 

Maisie said she had waded and 
fished here too, and had lived in 
that little white cottage near the 
roadside. Her father used to join 
them every Saturday, and they 
went blackberrying. 

‘‘Why didn’t I see you?” asked 
Stephen. “ I hated girls then, but 
I’d not have hated you.” 

“ I don’t know that I should have 
liked you. You’d have been a little 
boy with a clean collar, and I was 
a wild gypsy that even my father 
shook his head over.” 

“We should always have got on. 
I’ve known that ever since I first 
saw you. You were making that 
fat Richards boy run races and 
fetch and carry for his sisters. The 
next time you were singing at a 
people’s concert Miss Lloyd got up. 
You sang three times — so good- 
naturedly — because a performer 
hadn’t appeared.” 

“Yes, Miss Lloyd reproved me 
afterward.” 


HODS POR A poors BACK. l6t 


‘‘ Reproved you ?” 

“Yes, she said it was a bad 
precedent, and that people might 
think I was putting myself forward/' 

“Well, all I know is that you 
brought fresh air and sunshine into 
that dull, gaslit, steaming room," 
said Stephen hotly. 

They were walking on now, and 
rather silently. 

“ Miss Hearn, I say. Don't hate 
us all. You’re so much better — 
so much brighter,” fumbled Stephen 
desperately. “You can afford to 
be lenient.” 

“Hate you?” laughed Maisie. 
‘‘ I don't. Better ? I’m worse, 
worse, worse ! Now, I'll wait here 
in case my father comes this way, 
and you must go back and see Mrs. 
Tempest, or, better still, take the 
train to Fulford.” 

Stephen paid little attention to 
her words. He was watching her. 
“What are you doing?” 

“ Picking daisies.” 


i 62 our OF BOUNDS. 

What for ? 

^‘Tomakea chain. I’ll present 
it to the Baby Tempest when she 
comes back.” 

‘‘I’ll help.” And with the habit 
of industry of years Stephen picked 
and picked, and brought her hand- 
fuls from the roadside and field- 
side. “Now let me learn the 
pattern.” 

Maisie tolerated him, and her 
busy fingers bound and twisted and 
strung, and Stephen’s clumsier ones 
followed with many failures. 

It was a soft afternoon, but the 
air with its faint scent of dog-roses 
and daisies was gently stimulating. 
Stephen was laving himself in each 
joyous moment as it rolled up to 
him ; and he began speaking his 
informal thoughts aloud. 

“ Maisie, how deft and dainty you 
are ! Do you ever remember so 
bewitching a day, Maisie ? ” But 
before she had time to look more 
than startled, “ Maisie ! ” -sounded 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK, 163 

in quite other tones from behind. 
Both turned. 

“Ah, there you are!’* said a 
rough, hearty voice. “ My dear, I 
thought I’d never find you, and I 
never should, but a boy said he’d 
seen somebody like you come along 
here with a young man. I didn’t 
think it likely, but I came to see. 
How are you, my girl ? ” Hearn 
kissed his daughter, looked sus- 
piciously at Stephen, and returned 
his greeting coldly. 

“ Where were you going, dear ? ” 

“ I was waiting for you, father. 
You look tired. Come in. Mrs. 
Tempest is expecting you, though 
she is a little afraid of your fighting 
with her other guests. She is ex- 
pecting Mr. Ayres, not this one — 
the great one.” 

“I hope a collision with the 
great Mr. Ayres may be avoided, 
I’m sure. But, Maisie, on my 
way up I called on Martha at our 
old cottage. Hadn’t been there 


164 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


for fifteen years; and I promised 
you would go and see her. Sup- 
pose you go now. See, it’s close 
by. I believe that is she standing 
by her door. I’ll meet you again 
at Haydons gate.” 

Maisie looked a little rebellious. 
Her father was not used to send 
her away like a child whose misde- 
meanors must be talked over pri- 
vately. But she went, taking leave 
of them with a cold, offended air. 
Stephen vainly tried to accompany 
her. Hearn even kept him back 
by a look. 

“And what is Mr. Stephen Ayres 
doing in these quiet parts ? Stern 
business,^ I’ll be bound. Playing 
the good nephew to the county 
member ? ” 

The man’s voice was dry and 
rough. And he looked as if he 
had something disagreeable to say 
in the background. 

“No, no; only a holiday. 
Doing ? Why, I’ve been having 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 165 

the best time doing nothing in 
particular.” 

‘‘I didn’t know an Ayres ever 
did ‘nothing in particular,’” said 
Hearn, rudely enough. “And I 
did not know either that you and 
my daughter were friends.” 

“Well, I can’t say we were till 
yesterday — not just friends, till 
then.” 

“And you have advanced far in 
your friendship, since yesterday ? ” 

“ Oh, I hope so — though I don’t 
deserve it. I say, Mr. Hearn, you 
don’t mean to say you object to 
my seeing and being friends with 
Mai — Miss Hearn?” 

“ Mr. Stephen Ayres ” — the elder 
man was tall, and wrinkled, and 
worn; and he had such a set chin 
and so concise a manner of speech 
that Stephen felt unusually young 
— “I have been on terms of con- 
sistent opposition to your family 
for the last twenty years. Pri- 
vately, I have had some regard for 


i66 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


them. For yourself, we have been 
on opposite sides — well, since you 
have been seen in public life at all. 
I have, however, permitted myself 
to feel for you a respect, and per- 
haps something warmer. But my 
daughter is a poor girl. She had 
best choose friends among those 
who are just as poor.'* 

‘‘ Oh, as if she were not the 
equal " 

‘‘ I know my daughter, and I 
don’t think it necessary to express 
to you my sense of her worth. 
The fact remains as I have stated 
it. Circumstances are a little 
strong, even for battling reds like 
her and me. And now, forgive 
me, Mr. Ayres; I have already 
seen Mrs. Tempest, though I did 
not say so just now. She is, I 
believe, a good woman — though 
personally to me insufferable — and 
wishes Maisie well. She is trou- 
bled about her, I understand — 
thinks, perhaps, she has an ad- 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 167 

mirer in the neighborhood; and 
that she is not open and confiding 
enough. I do not mean in the 
least to connect Mrs. Tempest’s 
conjectures — mere conjectures — 
with the fact that Mr. Stephen 
Ayres was making daisy-chains in 
Arcadia at the hour the Fulford 
Council are in the habit of listen- 
ing to his advice. But I have said 
enough to show that my daughter’s 
comfort is concerned. You must 
see how widely different are your 
sphere and hers. You are an 
honorable man. I need say no 
more.’* 

“ Mr. Hearn, I would not for the 
world do anything to hurt your 
daughter. I love your daughter. 
There ! I would give my life to 
make her happy.** 

Hearn stopped by the roadside, 
and looked at the flushed young 
man by his side. 

‘‘And since when has this — affair 
— been going on ? ” 


1 68 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


Since — oh! — since yesterday, I 
suppose. But I seem always to 
have known it.” 

And my daughter ” 

Knows nothing about it, I’m 
sure, and perhaps would have noth- 
ing to say to me. You have heard 
it first.” 

Come, come ! You are very 
young, Mr. Ayres. I had no idea 
you were so young. You are 
speaking nonsense. The thing is 
impossible, and you’ll forget about 
it. A little imprudence on Maisie’s 
part does not demand so heroic a 
remedy. She is no fine lady, and I 
am sure can take care of herself.” 

‘‘ Mr. Hearn, I’m more serious 
than ever I was in my life. I never 
was serious before. I’d do any- 
thing for her, and she’s the 
best ” 

Stephen Ayres ! Stephen 
Ayres ! Hold your tongue. And 
trust me to forget you have spoken. 
She is not for the like of you. 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 1 69 


And you’d know it if you’d put 
your head in that stream for a min- 
ute. Go and see Mrs. Tempest 
admonishing her little governess. 
Go and tell your uncle you’re go- 
ing to marry that scamp Hearn’s 
daughter, — he’s called me so times 
enough, — and in the first glare of 
his eye you would know you were a 
fool. Go away home before this 
gets further; and, for God’s sake 
and your own, don’t tell a girl like 
Maisie you’re in love with her 
when you’ve known her four-and- 
twenty hours. I don’t know which 
she is the more likely to think you, 
fool or knave. Fool, I fancy.” 

‘^But you won’t put hindrances 
in the way ? ” 

‘‘Yes, I will, as I’m an honest 
man. Lord ! it’s idle to speak seri- 
ously to you. But even if you 
really meant what you say, do you 
think I’d let my girl go and be the 

scorn of all the d d Ruddington 

snobs ? ” He walked on faster in 


170 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


silence, gathering force for a fresh 
attack. 

‘‘Here’s the house, Mr. Ayres. 
I’ll wait about till Maisie comes 
back. You go in, or, better, go 
off. But you’re not going to play 
the fool with yourself or with her.” 

“Well, Mr. Hearn,” said Stephen 
slowly, “ I suppose it seems sudden 
to you. But I’m surer of nothing 
than that I want your daughter to 
be my wife, unless it be that I am 
not half good enough for her. Will 
you promise me to leave Maisie 
alone, and not spoil any chances I 
may have ? ” 

“Oh, trust me to leave her alone ! 
I shan’t speak of this rubbish to her. 
But I’ll advise her to keep her head 
straight. Now go, she’s coming. 
Go in, or go away ! ” 

A mournful young man went up 
the Hall steps, and was received, a 
minute or two later, by a beaming 
hostess. 

“ How good of you ! This is de- 


RODS^ FOR A FOOVS BACK. I?! 


lightful ! I saw you talking to that 
Mr. Hearn — dreadful man, isn’t he ? 
Coming to see his daughter — she’s 
my governess, you know — to-day of 
all days, and your uncle expected 
at any moment. I hope Mr. Ayres 
will understand. I had to ask him 
to come back. The daughter is so 
huffy, if any slight is put on her 
relatives. Quite a good young 
woman, but oh, so — you know those 
people don’t spare one’s feelings, 
and she is so like her father in her 
rather vulgar outspokenness. But 
you saw her ? William said she 
took you round the garden. So 
like her.” And Mrs. Tempest 
laughed. 

‘‘Miss Hearn was good enough 
to show me the grounds. I have 
the highest regard for both father 
and daughter.” 

“Oh !” said Mrs. Tempest con- 
strainedly. Then she beckoned to 
Maisie from the window to bring 
her father in. “I hope, Mr. Ayres, 


172 


our OF BOUNDS. 


we shall have the pleasure of your 
company at dinner. We shall be 
quite a Fulford party, all friends 
of yours,*' she added knowingly. 
Stephen wondered if Hearn and his 
daughter would be of it, but the 
improbability was too wild to induce 
him to accept. 

Thank you, but I cannot.” 

Ah, you are always so much en- 
gaged ! Found your daughter, Mr. 
Hearn ? You know Mr. Ayres — 
as an enemy. But you mustn't fight 
here. You take tea?” 

‘‘Mr. Ayres and I have already 
done battle royal, coming up the 
road. There's a truce for the 
present.” 

Maisie looked mystified, and Mrs. 
Tempest poured out tea with a senti- 
mental sigh of “ Politics ! politics ! ” 

It was a stiff meeting. The 
hostess, afraid of subjects that 
would open hostilities, could think 
of nothing at all to say. Maisie 
felt dimly she was in disgrace, and 


RODS FOR A FOOL'S BACK. 


173 


had never an eye for Stephen, who, 
in deepest woe, wished he had 
never entered the house. Hearn 
was most at his ease, and was steer- 
ing the conversation to flowers, 
which lay near the mistress’s heart, 
when a carriage drove up. 

“There they are,” said Mrs. 
Tempest. “Just in time for tea.” 
There was a bustle in the hall, and 
voices, among them none like his 
uncle’s, but one uncommonly famil- 
iar to Stephen’s ears. His heart 
sank. Next minute the door was 
flung open, and the straight, agile, 
dapper figure of Sibyl Lloyd was in 
the center of the room and greeting 
Mrs. Tempest, in her businesslike, 
cordial way, and Dr. Lloyd, behind, 
was stumping and wheezing and 
upsetting tables in his progress to 
his hostess. 

“So glad!” murmured Mrs. Tem- 
pest between Sibyl’s embraces. 

“I had to keep him up to it. 
He was giving in — said he was ill : 


174 


our OF BOUNDS, 


he is growing lazy. But he had 
proposed it, and as I had given 
you the notion of expecting us, I 
said it wouldn’t do.” This in clear 
staccato tones from Sibyl, who was 
smiling all round, and taking in the 
contents of the room, and casting 
playfully reproachful glances at her 
father all the while. 

“ Heard you were in the midst 
of politicians, Mrs. Tempest, and I 
hate ’em. Here they are, I sup- 
pose. How d’ye do, Stephen ? 
On the stump ?” 

‘‘How do you do, Stephen?” 
said Sibyl cordially. “Lucy said 
we might find you here. You had 
run away, but were thought to be 
helping your uncle. Miss Hearn,” 
— more formally, — “ I hope you are 
well. The country is pleasant now, 
isn’t it? Your — father ?” with the 
slightest air of surprise. 

“You a politician, too, sir?” 
said Dr. Lloyd tq Hearn, whom he 
did not know. 


RODS FOR A FOOL'S BACK. 175 


‘‘Yes, but of the other color.” 

“Ah, indeed! Well, that’s all 
right. Stephen cancels you. And 
you can’t fight here — though it’s 
not the fighting I object to so much 
as the insufferable, long-winded 
argument.” 

“But we expect Mr. Ayres, the 
member, every minute,” said the 
hostess. 

Dr. Lloyd made a grimace. 
“Ah, then I’ll be a lady for to-day. 
It’s impolite to talk politics to 
ladies — except to Sibyl. She knows 
nothing about ’em, but she likes to 
think she does. We’ll give her over 
to the men. Now we here are 
going to be comfortable,” and he 
took in Mrs. Tempest and Maisie 
with his broad, winning smile. 
“Was Ayres walking? Then we 
met him. He’ll be here in a 
minute.” 

And very soon after Ayres ar- 
rived, and in his train a Tempest 
nephew from a neighboring parish, 


176 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


whom he had picked up on his 
way. 

There was evidently only a thin 
veneer of graciousness over the 
elder Ayres’ bad temper. A busy 
day with committees and constitu- 
ents had followed a cold meeting of 
the night before. He had had no 
lunch, and he had the prospect of 
another speech, which he hated. 
Here, too, was Stephen, who had 
been playing the fool — how he had 
not found time to inquire — but in 
such a way that the Ayres name 
was now the signal for jokes and 
sniggering all over Binstone. 
Through his meddling he had been 
induced to give a dinner to a dozen 
irresponsible nobodies at The Wild 
Goose, mortally offending his Bin- 
stone committee thereby. Hearn 
was the devil ; his attacks these last 
days had been scandalous, and the 
Gazette^ that should have known 
better, had reported him. Now 
here, in the inner circle of his own 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 177 


party, he found him drinking tea. 
And there was Sibyl Lloyd, whom 
he detested because she used 
to map out his duties to his con- 
stituents, and talk to him for an 
hour on the subject. Dr. Lloyd's 
chaff he was in no mood for, and he 
made for Maisie because she was 
quite unknown. She could be 
talked to or not as his mood and 
her agreeableness should decide. 
She seemed the kind of person you 
might grumble to. 

Young Tempest, a healthy, irre- 
sponsible-looking animal, gazed 
round for someone to fasten on 
to. But Sibyl paid no attention to 
him, and Maisie was absorbed for 
the moment. 

Meanwhile Stephen was not en- 
joying himself. 

‘‘ Of course," Sibyl was saying to 
him, ‘‘ I see you had to come. Your 
uncle needed you. There are all 
the signs of difficulty in the .air. 
But it was most awkward your not 


178 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


being at the Institute last night. 
Nobody knew any of the business 
— except me. Wilcox was disagree- 
able; Watts wanted to postpone 
everything. By the bye, Stephen, 
just tell me the date of the Wenham 
Abbey affair, will you ? And you 
are to give the exposition; or, at 
least, you will see to it. You 
don’t know the date ? Haven’t 
your notebook ? Oh ! how can 
you hope to remember all your en- 
gagements? I have the old date 
in mine, of course, but I hear you’ve 
changed it. Never mind. What 
beautiful flowers, Mrs. Tempest ! 
Country flowers. Your own, of 
course ? ” 

‘‘No; these gardens have been 
let run wild for years. We can 
only depend on the hothouses. 
These are Miss Hearn’s. She gave 
them to me — had them sent her. 
Perhaps she had a birthday,” she 
added, with an attempt at archness. 

Maisie, within earshot, blushed 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 179 

“No.” Stephen was still redder, 
for he remembered Sibyl had in- 
deed a birthday that very day. 
Then he bent in answer to a sign 
from Sibyl, and heard a low, satis- 
fied voice in his ear: “Quite im- 
proving, Stephen, that girl. I’m so 
glad. I always felt a little respon- 
sible for recommending her.” 

“Oh, she must be grateful!” 
returned Stephen dryly. 

“Grateful, why? Her father’s 
creed is that gratitude is never 
due. But one is thankful to see 
a girl set in right ways.” 

Stephen put her cup down 
gravely, to fill up a gap of silence. 

“What’s that about the Rawe 
division in the paper this morn- 
ing, Stephen? I suppose it had 
something to do with your tele- 
gram,” growled his uncle, who 
had changed his mind, and now 
felt a desire to quarrel with his 
nephew. 

“Eh?” 


i8o 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


‘‘Why, the telegram I opened. 
You got it ? ” 

“Yes, yes, I got it. Oh, it’s 
nothing.” 

“ And your answer ? ” 

“Oh, well; I’m considering.” 

“Considering! Why, when will 
a chance like that come again to 
a young fellow? Considering! 
I’d have accepted first, and con- 
sidered after, at your age.” This 
was all in semi-private tones; but 
when Ayres the elder changed the 
subject his tone changed too, and 
it was in a loud, brusque, inquisi- 
torial voice he asked: 

“ Been home ?” 

Stephen gloomily shook his head. 

“Spent the night here?” 

“Yes — that is — no. Well, at 
Haydons.” 

“At Haydons, Mr. Stephen! 
And you didn’t come here! Well, 
that was unkind. Where did you 
stop? With friends ? ” 

“No, not with friends.” 


RODS FOR A FOOL'S BACK. l8l 


‘‘At The Lion, then, of course/* 

“No,” said Stephen desperately. 
“I think it was The Thatched Hut.” 

“The Thatched Hut,” said Mrs. 
Tempest meditatively. “Where is 
that ? I don’t know it. Is it 
new ? ” 

“I should think not.” 

“ Comfortable ? ” 

“No, not at all; but it did — it 
did.” Then he hurried on, for old 
Lloyd’s eye was on him. “Thanks, 
Mrs. Tempest, I couldn’t come. 
My business kept me so late.” 

His uncle gloomed at the men- 
tion of business. 

“ Business after that hour ! ” said 
young Tempest cheerily. “I saw 
you last night, you know. Well, 
you public chaps don’t know when 
to stop. ’Twas eleven, if ’twas 
anything, when we came out.” 

“Your meetings are altogether 
intemperate in talk,” said Lloyd. 

“Meetings!” laughed young 
Tempest, but with a shy look of 


i 82 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


apology to the elder Ayres. ‘‘You 
don’t catch me at meetings ! 
’Twasn’t a meeting; we were at the 
play, Ayres and me, at the magnifi- 
cent rendering of the ‘ The Wreck 
of a Soul,’ by the talented Coffey 
family. I say, wasn’t it awful rot ? 
I went out half the time. But I 
saw you sit firm. It’s your train- 
ing, I suppose.” 

Stephen quailed a little before 
old Lloyd’s grin, and his uncle’s 
knitted brows, and Sibyl’s pained 
expression; but said and tried to 
look nothing. 

“You thought it awful rot, 
didn’t you?” said the ingenuous 
youth, looking confidently at Maisie, 
whose name and identity were un- 
known to him, but whose appear- 
ance pleased him more than any 
other guest of his aunt’s that after- 
noon. Perhaps she was an Ayres’ 
sister. 

“ Is she going to tell a cowardly 
lie and get us out of the scrape; or 


RODS FOR A FOODS BACK. 1B3 

the truth, and get us into an un- 
commonly ugly mess?” was the 
query in Stephen's eyes and her 
father's. 

Maisie's color was high, but she 
saw all were listening for her an- 
swer to the lad, and she said, ^‘Oh, 
I enjoyed it ! '' 

Mrs. Tempest had the look of 
one waking up : she drew her 
breath in sharply. ‘‘What was 
the viper she had nursed in her 
bosom ? *' said her eyes. Sibyl 
looked coldly prepared for all 
emergencies. Dr. Lloyd drummed 
with his fingers, and his alternate 
glances at Stephen and his daughter 
were mischievous. Young Tempest 
was the most unconscious of the 
group. But it was Hearn who 
broke the horrid silence. 

“Mrs. Tempest, while sitting 
pleasantly here, let me not forget 
that Mr. Ayres and I are deadly 
foes, and that we are going to 
thunder at each other this evening. 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


184 

on different platforms. I have a 
long way to go, and must meet 
some friends, and find my trap at 
the — Thatched Hut, is it ? 

moment, Mr. Hearn, a mo- 
ment,’’ she answered peremptorily. 
But she turned away from him, and, 
undismissed, he waited irresolutely. 

‘‘Talking of huts, Mr. Ayres,” 
she said, turning to the member, 
“that reminds me. You must 
think us dreadful people here to 
rob you.” 

“ Rob me ! No! Of what?” 

“You haven’t found out? It 
must have been at the meeting, 
I suppose. So strange we should 
have been the detectives ! Lot, 
our man, has been on the outlook 
for chicken-thieves, and last night, 
sure enough, he found one, and 
locked him up. He was no coun- 
tryman, but one of the ‘ swell 
mob,’ as he expressed it, from the 
town. Well, as I said, the stupid 
man locked him up in an old dis- 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. 185 


used hut that stands in the grounds, 
and, of course, the creature got 
away. But he left some of his 
booty behind him, and we’ve got 
the things, and here they are.” 
She fumbled in a basket, and took 
out the handkerchief and silver 
match-box. 

‘^Thanks. How extraordinary ! 
But they’re not mine. ‘S. A.’ Yes, 
to be sure. But, no, it isn’t mine. 
I don’t smoke. And the handker- 
chief — ‘S. Ayres.’ It must be yours, 
Steve. Where did you say it was 
found, Mrs. Tempest?” 

‘‘ In the Thatched Hut,” said 
Dr. Lloyd. 

Hearn rose again, this time with 
decision, and took leave, his hostess 
having surely forgotten her business 
with him. Maisie followed him out 
of the room. 

Sibyl, dear, now you will go to 
your room. Dr. Lloyd, you’d like 
to go to the smoking room. Mr. 
Stephen, will you take care of your 


i86 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


uncle and Dr. Lloyd for a mo- 
ment ?’’ 

Hearn was in the hall, waiting for 
Maisie, as Mrs. Tempest crossed it 
in wrath. She passed him close, 
without looking, counting it as vir- 
tue she did not call him names. 
Maisie she found on the top land- 
ing, coming out of her room, with a 
troubled enough look. 

“ Miss Hearn, is it true you went 
with Mr. Ayres to that low enter- 
tainment last night, and refused to 
tell where you had been ? '' 

‘‘I went with Mr. Ayres to the 
Binstone Hall, if that is what you 
mean. But I did not refuse to tell 
where I had been. You did not 
ask.’^ 

‘‘ And he saw you home ? ” 

“Yes.’* 

“ And what does it all mean ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

“When did you make Mr. Ayres* 
acquaintance ? ” 

“ Oh, long ago ! ” 


' RODS FOR A FOOL'S BACK. 1 87 


That is not true. You told me 
you had never been in the Ayres’ 
house, and only knew Lucy, and 
her slightly.” 

“That was the day before yes- 
terday. I know more now ; ” 
roused to flippant defiance by the 
accusation of a lie. 

“Miss Hearn, it’s not decent. 
You know you can have nothing 
to do with Mr. Ayres. The very 
girl he’s notoriously engaged to in 
the house at this mohient! And 
he’s the best of young men — a 
model! It is your fault — it must 
be! Why, his mother will never 
forgive me for having taken you. 
It’s always the way. Bad in- 
fluences will come out. Miss 
Lloyd told me to look for theater 
ways and flirting, for the sake of 
the children, and, poor thing! she 
is the victim herself. Dear, dear! 
And all in two days. He sends 
you flowers — I know he did: I 
saw the Binstone postmark — and 


i88 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


walks with you, and takes you to 
see strolling players, and then 
he goes and spends the night,” 
she rambled on inconsequently, 
‘‘well, where? You must have 
drawn him on. The whole thing 
is impossible, otherwise.” 

Maisie said nothing, but tried to 
pass downstairs. 

“No, you will not go. Miss 
Hearn, without a promise. Prom- 
ise never to see Stephen Ayres 
again. Promise, so that I may 
tell his uncle and Dr. Lloyd.” 

“Very likely I may see little 
of him. But I will make no prom- 
ises to you. Why should I ? If 
I have accepted his companion- 
ship for an hour or two, after a 
chance meeting, where was the 
harm ? ” 

“If you do not promise, then 
you go off at once, and never 
enter my house again. Do you 
hear? I mean it.” 

“I hear. I am going away now 


RODS FOR A FOOL'S BACK. 1 89 

with my father. I will never enter 
your house again;” and she did 
not turn back once to the fuming 
Mrs. Tempest on the top step. 

Hearn had heard all, but let 
things be. He was turning over 
in his mind what he should do with 
Maisie that night. 

Stephen, at his hostess’ bidding, 
had found the smoking room, thrust 
Dr. Lloyd inside, and, he hoped, 
his uncle, too. He heard Mrs. 
Tempest’s angry voice, and went 
into the hall to be on the spot to 
rescue Maisie. Alas! but his uncle 
followed him, pulled him to a safe 
distance from the waiting Hearn; 
and it was not easy to know how 
Maisie was faring while his uncle 
was hissing over his shoulder, “So 
you’ve been playing the fool in 
a variety of ways. Well, it’s not 
my business to interfere with your 
pleasures. But I’ll just remind 
you that certain people ” — and he 
glanced savagely in Hearn’s direc- 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


190 

tion — ‘‘certain people have the 
power and the habit, too, of mak- 
ing themselves desperately dis- 
agreeable. And we’ll both suffer 
for this. Binstone is a talented 
place, let me assure you. They’ve 
set some adventures to rhyme 
already, of which you’re the hero. 
And they’ll sing them at my meet- 
ings, and they’ll sing them at 
Rawe, if you ever go there. Do 
you hear ? What the devil did you 
want, leaving your work, and traips- 
ing about the country, and dancing 

at fairs with a d d agitator’s 

girl — and on the eve of an election 
too ?” 

Stephen waved him away, with- 
out correcting the inaccuracies. 
He wanted to know what was going 
on above. As he heard Maisie’s 
last words, and saw her coming 
downstairs slowly, he rushed im- 
pulsively over to Hearn, and burst 
out : 

“I’ve behaved like a fool. But 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. igi 

Tm not a rascal. She’ll not suffer 
for my folly, I swear. They’ll go 
down on their bended knees and 
ask her to come back, Mr. Hearn, 
remember what I said; and I’m 
going to say it to her when I 
dare.” 

Maisie was beside them now. 

“ Come, father, I’m ready. I’m " 
going with you altogether.” Then 
turning and seeing the misery on 
Stephen’s face, “Don’t trouble. 
What does it matter ? We’re vaga- 
bonds. No, but I mean it. Don’t 
trouble.” And they were gone. 

Stephen turned to Mrs. Tempest, 
who had reached the hall. 

“I heard you say to Miss Hearn 
that our foolish but very harmless 
amusement of last night was all her 
blame. It was not so. If there 
was blame at all, it was mine, 
entirely.” 

“ Of course, you are bound to 
say so.” 

“It was mine. Your judgment 


192 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


of Miss Hearn is all wrong. She 
behaved,’' he continued senten- 
tiously, ‘^she behaved ” (he searched 
for words that might appeal to 
Mrs. Tempest) ‘‘with absolute 
propriety.” Then, losing his sen- 
tentiousness, and stuttering like a 
schoolboy in a rage, he went on : 
“If what we did in a gossipy little 
hole is not permitted by comrade- 
ship between honorable persons, 
then — then, I say, everything’s 
rotten. For Miss Hearn and her 
father I have the highest regard, 
and I think you cannot but see how 
necessary it is to take back any 
criticism of her you may have 
uttered in the heat of the moment.” 

“ Of your conduct, Mr. Ayres, 
I can be no judge. But Miss 
Hearn is, or was, the governess of 
my children, and I must choose 
what influences they are brought 
under.” And she sailed away to 
Sibyl, who had not yet left the 
drawing room, bearing an incurable 


RODS FOR A FOOVS BACK. IQS 


wound in her breast — the pain of an 
unsuccessful tea party. 

Stephen stood irresolute. Where 
should he go ? He would not fol- 
low the two outcasts yet. They 
must have a great deal to say to 
each other. Sibyl ? He turned 
faint at the thought. Dr. Lloyd ? 
He must not be all a craven ; so 
he opened the smoking-room door. 
His uncle was scowling behind the 
Times. The doctor was comfort- 
ably settled in an armchair by the 
window, placidly reading ‘‘ Emma.” 
He looked up at Stephen inquir- 
ingly, and offered to move when he 
came near. His bantering had 
stopped, but he was not ruffled ; 
his temper always grew sweeter 
when there was a storm in the air. 
In the larger affairs of life he was 
willing to wait patiently for explan- 
ations; and, perhaps, because he 
thought no explanation worth hav- 
ing could be obtained yet from any- 
one so worried as the young man 


194 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


before him evidently was, he gave 
a little sigh and returned to his 
‘‘Emma,’* with a look of quiet 
enjoyment on his face that shut out 
from Stephen all opportunity of 
confidence and confession. With 
a lost and harassed air the young 
man left the room and the house, 
paced up and down the terrace a 
dozen times, and then set out in 
haste for The Lion. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


XLbc ^Tdumpb of 


EARN was still there. He 
and his friends were din- 

ing. Miss Hearn? Oh! the 

young lady was in the green parlor 
upstairs. 

Stephen was there too, in half a 
minute, without a by-your-leave to 
his guide or Maisie. She had been 
crying; he could see that. Even 
vagabonds do not like to be sent 
vagabonding; only to go of their 
own vagabond will. But here was 
no welcome consoler, and her look 
would have sent away a less desper- 
ate man. 

“ Maisie, they’ll come and beg to 
be your friends yet — that I swear. 
I’ve told Mrs. Tempest I’m the cul- 



196 OUT OF BOUNDS. 

prit. She knows quite well she is 
all wrong. But I didn’t come to 
say this just now — something else — 
something else.” He gave her a 
frightened look, and he got no an- 
swer at all. 

Bad time or good time, Maisie, 
it’s the only time. I’ve told your 
father. Do you think I’ve got you 
into this trouble all for a little bit 
of idle amusement ? No, not a bit. 
I love you. Don’t be angry. Your 
father was angry, and I deserve it. 
Can’t such a thing happen in a day ? 
Yes it can; yes it can ! And it 
seems to me it happened long ago. 
I knew it the first time I saw you. 
I’ll wait as long as you like and 
learn to deserve you, Maisie. 
Only don’t shut your ears against 
me.” 

‘‘You told my father this?” 
murmured Maisie, her face hidden 
by her arms, and her hands clasped 
above her head. “You’re pos- 
sessed ! There, good-by. You’ve 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 197 

done me no harm, and I’ve learnt 
something. Leave me; I’m tired.” 
‘‘ You despise me. You might 

at least believe ” 

The girl stopped him by an im- 
patient movement. The tears were 
dropping now on the table. “You 
are exaggerating. My employer 
turns me off for what she calls 
misconduct — well, what of that ? 
There are other places; the world’s 
before me. I’m not afraid. And 
you would make up for a little im- 
prudence by a never-ending pay- 
ment. Isn’t it a little too much to 
ask me to accept ? ” 

“ Payment! Don’t use the word. 
But all the same I’d pay my life out 
for you.” 

“You’d ruin your life, only to 
think of me. Oh, Mr. Ayres, let 
me be, let me be ! We are different 
altogether. Go away. What would 
your people — your clan — think ? 
Think ! What would they do, did 
I listen ? ” 


198 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


“They might be proud in- 
deed ** 

“Yes, but they wouldn’t.’* 

Stephen tried to call up a mental 
picture of the various members of 
his clan, as she called it, coming 
forward to welcome the new and 
fairest bride. But his imagination 
was not equal to the occasion. 

“ Lucy,” he said desperately. 

“Yes, Lucy. But even with her 
my acquaintance has passed to mere 
distant nods. It’s not her fault; 
it’s necessity.” 

“ Listen, Maisie! If you tell me 
you will have nothing of me. I’ll go 
away, and trouble you no more. 
Or if you say it’s too sudden. I’ll 
wait. But to tell me what other 
folks — yours or mine — will say or 
do, is no answer. It’s between you 
and me only; whatever be your 
father’s pride or my family’s 
vanity.” 

Stephen did not know what was 
passing in the girl’s head. It was a 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 1 99 


less simple head than his own, and 
had worked at harder problems in 
life. Wonder and triumph and am- 
bition, and perhaps a little spite, a 
longing for brightness, proud inde- 
pendence, the perfect sense of the 
clean-drawn, deep-cut line of social 
difference between this man and 
her, a wild terror and a great hope, 
were coursing, together and sepa- 
rate, in her brain. If only he would 
not stand there ! It was so hard to 
know what her heart and conscience 
was saying while she felt his pres- 
ence. He drew up to the top and 
made her powerless against feeling 
that had been planted deep, perhaps 
earlier than yesterday. 

Maisie, tell me, on your soul, 
could you grow to care for me ? 

‘‘I fear I could. So go away.” 

When Stephen went downstairs, 
Hearn’s friends were standing in a 
corner of the coffee room, waiting 
patiently for him. Over by the 
window he was prisoned in a close 


200 


OUT OF BOUNDS, 


conversation with Sibyl Lloyd. It 
was indeed a sight for Ruddington, 
to see the precise Miss Lloyd, the 
embodiment of respect for author- 
ity, talking confidentially to the man 
who was to her Antichrist — whom 
she did not call so only because in 
Ruddington the name was appro- 
priated by the Dissenters. They 
stopped speakingat Stephen's entry. 
Hearn had the trace of deep annoy- 
ance on his face; Sibyl was paler 
than usual, but very friendly. 

“I have brought Mrs. Tempest 
to see she was hasty, Stephen," 
said Sibyl, with her frank direct- 
ness, that often served the occasion 
better than delicate diplomacy. 
“I'm sorry about all the bother. 
Young Tempest drove me over, 
and I've brought some of her 
things. I thought she had better 
spend the night here; she won't 
want to come back just yet. I'm 
going up to see her now.** 

Stephen gave her a shamefaced 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 


201 


but grateful look. He opened the 
door for her, but could speak no 
words. They were calling out for 
Hearn. 

‘‘I’ll come with you,” said 
Stephen. 

But the vehicle was full, and 
Hearn shouted, “We can’t wait, 
we can’t wait; we’re late already ! ” 
And off they drove. 

Stephen nearly knocked a young 
man over in his haste to order a 
trap of some kind. It was young 
Tempest, standing twirling his whip 
for lack of better occupation. 

“Sorry, sir,” said the landlord. 
“Both traps out. No, I’ve no 
horse. His leg is bad. Very 
sorry — quite impossible.” 

“A trap of some kind I must 
have. ” He could not stay here, 
with Sibyl upstairs. He could not 
wait, doing nothing,till Hearn came 
back, at midnight, perhaps. He 
must see him now, and not let him 
return to spoil everything. 


202 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


What do you want a trap for ? '' 
asked young Tempest. 

‘^To go to Selford. There's a 
meeting there." 

‘‘Oh, you are mad about meet- 
ings! And it's the wrong color. 
Never mind, I have my aunt's trap. 
I don't know if Miss Lloyd wants 
to stop long. She might be willing 
to wait. I say, Ayres; something 
she said made me think I'd got 
you into a scrape. I don't under- 
stand it all, but I didn't mean it, 
you know." 

“All right, and if you get me 
over there before old Hearn is in 
the thick of the meeting, you'll have 
done all that man can do to put 
things right. If Miss Lloyd would 
keep Miss Hearn company for an 
hour now,her fatherwould be glad." 

Stephen said the last words 
grimly. They possibly contained 
an unpleasant truth. His treat- 
ment of Sibyl was galling him, but 
in the fever of another excitement 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 203 


he would not let himself feel all the 
pain. 

‘‘ I’ll manage it. I’ll not men- 
tion you this time.” And the lad 
sought out the room where the two 
women were talking. Sibyl half- 
opened the door, and to his hurried 
explanation that he wanted the 
trap for an hour or so, said, ‘‘ Yes, 
yes; she had meant to wait.” 

Then young Tempest applied his 
whip, and through the night air 
they flew at lightning speed, catch- 
ing the last memories of day just 
as the folding doors were moving 
on their dark hinges to shut out 
the yellow light. Stormy battal- 
ions of war seemed the clouds, but 
in the clearer sky were fields of 
peace; and the sounds of the wind 
and their wheels set themselves to 
the tune of exaltation. 

‘‘Don’t wait! Drive back. 
Thank you a thousand times!” 
called Stephen, as he got down at 
the Selford hall. With the instinct 


204 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


of a public man he sought out the 
private door, and made his way up 
the little staircase to the back of 
the platform, which was full. The 
chairman was still haranguing as he 
made his way to the side. He rec- 
onnoitered quietly. Hearn was sit- 
ting in front, scribbling some notes 
for his speech. A soft whistle 
from below attracted Stephen’s at- 
tention. Peeping over the edge, 
he saw Newhills* Charlie stretching# 
his legs at ease over the benches 
which ran like stage boxes into the 
side of the platform, and looking 
up in his face with an ingenuous 
smile. Stephen nodded, but en- 
couraged no further intercourse. 
Then Charlie rose, and leaning 
against the platform, his whitish 
hair just touching the ornamental 
edging : 

‘‘Was it all right?” he hissed 
shrilly. 

Stephen started and looked 
down. “ All right ? what about ? ” 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 20 $ 


About the lady ?” 

‘‘Oh, yes! first-rate. Capital, 
Charlie! Stephen flushed and 
gleamed, and encouraged by 
Charlie's innocent interest, rubbed 
. his hands, and all but waved his 
hat. 

“What ye doing here?" said 
the boy. 

“Doing? Oh, nothing! What 
are you ? " 

“Tm supportin' the meeting, 
I am. I'm a red, an' father's 
t'other sort. But you! Aint 'e 
givin' 't your uncle? Oh, my! 
But it's nothin' to what 'e can do. 
You wait." 

“The words I have quoted — 
the record of votes I have shown 
you — prove the crass stupidity, 
the corruption at the bottom of 
the principles supported by the 
gentleman now speaking not a 
hundred miles from here, and mis- 
representing your views." “ Hear, 
hear ! hear ! hear ! Belson for- 


206 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


ever ! ” His uncle could look after 
his own reputation, and so could 
his party. They were nothing to 
Stephen just now; but should he 
be recognized it might be unpleas- 
ant. That was surely Sinker sit- 
ting below, with the paper in his 
hand: questions concerning the 
candidate’s views on liquor and 
morals, of course. In the applause 
that followed on the chairman’s 
eloquent peroration, Stephen wrote 
a note and passed it to Charlie. 

Give that to the speaker in front, 
the tall man with the brown coat.” 
Then he disappeared downstairs, 
and waited at the foot. ‘‘ Some- 
one to see Mr. Hearn,” said the 
note, ‘Gn the committee-room. 
Iniporta^it'' His part of the per- 
formance would not come on just 
yet, so Hearn obeyed the sum- 
mons, to find a reminder of all 
the worry and folly he had thought 
well left behind, in the person of 
Stephen Ayres at the stair-foot. 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 207 


‘‘Mr. Hearn, just a minute. 
Come in here. You were wrong, 
and I am the happiest man in the 
world. I startled her horribly, but 
I am given a chance. So I came on 
here for your promise not to upset 
things. Don’t, by all that’s sacred !” 

“You are a raving madman. 
And Maisie ought to be ashamed of 
herself.” 

“No, no ! Promise to help, not 
to hinder. Don’t go back to her 
and spoil everything.” 

“I’m not going now. I’ve to 
stop here and slay your uncle, and 
all that you hold dear. And, by 
Jove! won’t I just do it!” 

“I don’t care. I’ll stay, too. 
I don’t seem to mind much about 
politics now, and, besides, I’m open 
to conviction. I want to go back 
to her with you, and let her see she 
is not angering you by blessing me.” 

“Ah!” growled Hearn, “I 
can’t stand fooling here. Go to 
the devil ! ” 


208 


our OF BOUNDS. 


Stephen followed him to the 
platform instead, and sat there 
meekly, and listened with a seraphic 
smile to the attack of Hearn and 
the others on the Government, on 
the principles of his party, on his 
uncle's brains and honesty, on all 
that was solemn and sacred in 
Stephen's social and political creed. 
And he applauded Hearn when he 
made a good hit, and laughed when 
Charlie winked at him not to let 
slip the broader, more obvious 
jokes at his party's expense; even 
stood up and, for very joy of heart 
and exaltation of spirit, shouted the 
chorus of a song that consigned 
his own friends to everlasting 
wreck and ruin. What did it all 
matter ? It was good to sing and 

to oppose and d all those that 

might be disagreeable to Maisie. 

Hearn left soon after his own 
speech, and Stephen followed him. 
They walked back to The Lion, 
Stephen a little chastened now 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 209 


by the elder man’s gloom and his 
thoughts of Sibyl. Neither spoke 
much. As they entered the 
lighted doorway, Stephen whis- 
pered, ‘^Mind your promise,” and 
got I made no promise” for re- 
tort. He kept at Hearn’s heels all 
the way up to the little parlor, 
where Maisie sat pretending to 
read. 

“I’ve brought you back a fool, 
Maisie. He says you have been 
listening to him. I can’t think it 
is true, but I’ll hear what you have 
to say.” 

“Oh, father, am I all wrong? 
I feared you would say so.” 

“What have I to do with it? 
But you surely know what you have 
to expect, and what you will bring 
on him ? It’s not a bed of roses 
you are strewing for yourselves. 
Ah,” throwing off his coat, with an 
angry tug, “look here, you — chil- 
dren ! Are you serious ? ” 

“Your father is not very angry. 


210 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


I think, Maisie. You see, he 
brought me back to you.'* 

‘‘I wash my hands of the whole 
business. Approve, I don’t. I’d 
rather see her earn her living all 
the days of her life. And I don’t 
think the affair will ever come to 
pass. For God’s sake, go to bed, 
and sleep it off, Maisie! There, 
away with you. Good-night, little 
fool ! Oh, I thought you were able 
to take care of yourself. There, 
there, good-night! If you wake up 
in this mood after a long sleep, 
we’ll see, we’ll see. Did Miss 
Lloyd stop long ? Now, there’s 
a sensible woman for you ! ” 

‘‘Yes, she stopped a long time, 
and — I like her. She left a note for 
you. Here it is; ” handing it to Ste- 
phen, as she passed out of the room. 

“ Now, Ayres, where are you 
going ? Not to the Tempests’, 
I’ll be bound.” 

“ I’ll stop here, if they can keep 
me. I’m going to see.” 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 


2II 


‘‘One thing, Ayres, before I see 
the last of you. As it isn't you 
alone and all your blessed family 
that this thing concerns, so it isn’t 
Maisie by herself, either. There 
are one or two things I care for; 
things I have worked for, and 
fought for. Don’t you lose me all 
those by your wrong-headedness. 
I don’t want to pay for my schem- 
ing, and my fawning, and my in- 
sincerity— I think I know what the 
vices I’ve been developing to-day 
will be called — with the success of 
what I’ve set my heart on. See to 
that. Good-night! Go and sleep 
and cool your head.” 

The events of the day — the little 
social scandal, the winning of one 
lady, the jilting of another — were 
exciting, not sleep-conducive. Yet 
two nights and days spent out of 
doors can do wonders to cover over 
the most interesting events with 
a veil — can even drown remorse. 
As Stephen sat looking out of his 


212 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


window the events took on an 
unreal look; his head grew hot and 
heavy. He must lay it down. 
Sibyl's letter, unopened, was on the 
table. It could wait. He could 
not think any more. He was a 
villain, but the blessedest villain 
alive. Now to sleep, to sleep ! 

And sleep he did for some hours, 
and then he woke with a start, his 
first flash of thought revealing to 
him no picture of Maisie, but the 
bitter reflection that he was skulk- 
ing. He lit his candle, and groped 
for Sibyl's letter. 

‘‘Dear Stephen [it ran]: That 
you had something to do with Mrs. 
T. sending off Miss H. was plain. 
Indeed, I've persuaded Mrs. T. to 
transfer her offense to you, which 
you will only think just, I am sure. 
I have no business in the matter 
further, only I hate things going 
wrong for lack of an explanation. 
In spite of certain old passages and 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 213 


family expectations let us do what 
is common sense. It is so unneces- 
sary to make mistakes of this kind. 
I’m counting on your help at the R. 
A. Soc., Monday evening. 

“ Yours Affect., 

S. L.” 


‘‘What does she mean? Crying 
off because I’ve behaved abomi- 
nably, or magnanimously letting me 
down easy ? It’s the latter. Oh, 
Sibyl ! you are worth ten of me. 
You’re free of a fool ! ” 

Then he fell asleep and slept till 
far into the day. 

Maisie and her father had gone 
off early. During the hours that 
would pass before he could catch a 
train Stephen had a duty to perform. 
He walked to the Hall and asked 
for Sibyl. She came to see him, 
greeting him very frankly, but let- 
ting him open the interview. 

“Thank you for writing to me, 
Sibyl. I’ve come to say that yes- 


214 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


terday I became engaged to Maisie 
Hearn/’ 

‘‘I know you did: she said as 
much.” 

‘‘ I am not excusing myself, 
Sibyl. If you think ill of me, I de- 
serve it.” 

‘‘Why?” 

“Well, I have broken ties that 
were made by two.” 

“ Do you know, Stephen, I never 
believed we should marry. During 
the last year or so the prospect has 
seemed remote. I don’t take it ill, 
your breaking with me. Perhaps 
it is providential,” she said, with a 
placid smile and steady eyes, which 
somehow gave no happiness to her 
old lover. 

“But,” she went on, “though 
I’d like you to know I carry about 
no hurt feelings, as your friend, 
Stephen — I can say it as a friend — 
I think what you are doing is awful ! 
What has come over you, I don’t 
know. I don’t seem to know you. ” 


THE TRIUMPH OF FOLLY. 21 $ 


I’ve lost acquaintance with my- 
self, a little, I think. You are very 
good, Sibyl. No one else could 
have been so generous ; and it 
makes my conduct no better that 
you can’t much grieve for me. 
Well, perhaps you will see one day 
that I have acted well toward you, 
not with intention, but in fact.” 
He was not at all sure what he 
meant. Perhaps he had in his 
mind’s eye a picture of Sibyl presid- 
ing over an episcopal palace, man- 
aging the clergy and the morals of 
a see. But Sibyl has not married 
yet. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Sequel : ffrom wblcb tbe /iRoral ie 
Omitted. 

N these last years changes 
have come over the social 
condition of Fulford ; and 
these might be summed up in the 
fact that the Ayres are no longer 
what they were. The old, hard- 
headed banker, five times mayor, 
has been gathered to his fathers. 
The county member, with the 
London reputation, was rejected 
by Tinstone and its neighborhood; 
and as he was thought to have 
trifled with the local chances of his 
party, he has got no peerage yet 
for consolation — only a safe seat in 
a district Fulford knows not of. 
There was a strike at the Ayres’ 
mills some time ago, from which 



216 


THE MORAL IS OMITTED, 


217 


they did not come off unscathed. 
The trade of the town is not what 
it used to be. And all these mis- 
fortunes, general and particular — 
even to some late inclement sum- 
mers, hard on the members of the 
family who have invested in land, 
and the American tariff, heavy on 
all — are vaguely connected, in most 
Ayres* minds, with the escapade of 
a certain young man, once their 
hope and stay, who burst off sud- 
denly from comfort and duty, one 
fine June afternoon, and in two 
days had committed every sin 
against prudence and family repute. 
* He wears his remorse lightly, 
though the changing fortunes have 
affected him more than his elders. 
At the mill he has had to put his 
shoulder to the wheel. The apathy 
he showed for political affairs at a 
critical moment offended the Rawe 
electors; and he is not likely to 
be their member. The opposing 
faction in municipal matters, led 


2i8 


OUT OF BOUNDS. 


by Hearn the irreconcilable, is 
stronger now, and Stephen has to 
fight his way in public, and has 
learned to take many a beating in- 
stead of carrying all before him with 
the air of a young god. His father- 
in-law and he have not converted 
each other, in spite of the time they 
willingly spend in each other’s com- 
pany. Socially and politically, he 
is no longer one of a select aris- 
tocracy in his little world, but has 
to make his way among a swarm of 
new men; and his way, according 
to the family standard, is not yet 
made. But he is radiantly happy; 
and so is Maisie. 

At first Maisie took on an amus- 
ing tone of patronage toward the 
Ayres women, or laughed at them ; 
but once having frightened them 
into deferential behavior, she is 
merry and kindly with them, as 
with the rest of the world. Rud- 
dington, in general, approves of 
her, and likes her better than her 


THE MORAL IS OMITTED. 


219 


sisters and cousins and aunts-in- 
law. She enjoys her luxuries and 
her holidays, — they are after her 
own pattern, — for if Stephen began 
the real work of the world about 
the time he married her, starvation 
does not yet stare them in the face. 
She would end her holiday blithely 
if it did. Nor would she be with- 
out willing helpers. A certain 
kitchen-maid, named Arabella, on 
familar terms with the heads of the 
house, would work holes in her 
hands for Stephen; and even New- 
hills' Charlie’s fitful energy could 
be counted on as continuous, if 
Maisie’s comfort were threatened. 
Arabella is still single; and will 
remain so till the exuberance of 
Charlie’s youth has passed away, 
and till he has shown signs of the 
self-interest which Arabella insists 
is the first essential quality of a 
settled married man. 


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